Noplace Like Home
by bethos
Summary: Trip Tucker is forced to use the transporter device during an unusual ion storm … with unusual results. (WIP)
1. The Ion Storm

Title: Noplace Like Home  
Author: Apocalypse  
Fandom: ENT  
Disclaimer: These characters belong not to me, though it grieves my heart greatly, but to Bermaga. Why? Because there is no justice.  
Pairing: Tucker/Sato, T'pol/Reed   
Rating: PG-13  
Summary: Trip Tucker is forced to use the transporter device during an unusual ion storm … with unusual results.  
Author's Note: Both of the pairings I'm writing in this story are outside my pairing preferences. I can't say I don't usually write in them, because I haven't written enough stories to usually write in anything, nor that I don't usually read in them, because I have read dozens of Tu/S stories (I like to read outside my own pairings to see what else is out there and see how other people think … and there's nothing specifically wrong with the relationship as it is usually portrayed, I just don't happen to like it very much; it doesn't click for me, it doesn't make me squeal with glee the way other pairings for the characters do) and a smaller number of Reed/T'pol stories (because I have personal difficulty with the idea of relationships for a Vulcan woman with a human man).  Therefore writing the story _has proved somewhat difficult for me on the shipping front, and I would appreciate any feedback on the way I portray the interactions between Malcolm and T'pol (not as much, because these are their warped, Mirror Universe selves) and especially between Trip and Hoshi; I don't want to get their interactions totally dead-wrong and inadvertently hurt people reading this story for pairings. I put aside my personal pairing preferences because these are the pairings I need to have for the story I want to tell, but that doesn't necessarily mean that the way they're written works for those of you who read in these pairings, and I'd like to make the story go as smoothly and engagingly for y'all as possible, so please drop me a line if you don't like the way I've written them.  _

[WARNING: Watch out for character death in later chapters! Some people may die in the course of this fic! [They will all be alternate universe incarnations of themselves but if you think you will find their deaths traumatic, you may not want to read this story.]

Chapter One: The Ion Storm

            "We haven't got a choice, Commander," Malcolm said fiercely, glaring up at his superior officer with an intensity of expression that could have got him court-martialed, were he in any other chain of command. "And I _insist on going first. Whether or not it's _safe_," and he spat the word as though its consideration was beneath contempt, "is hardly a concern at this point!"_

            "I haven't got time to _argue_ with you about this, Lieutenant," Trip retorted. "But if one of us is going to go through the storm _first_, it's going to be me."

            "It is my duty as the chief of security on this ship …"

            "We're not _on the ship at the moment, are we, Mr. Reed? I _order_ you to stand down," Trip said. _

            "You're more vital to the mission -"

            "That may be, Malcolm, but I'm still your superior officer and I don't want to argue with you about this anymore," Trip said. He flipped open the communicator again. "Ready, Cap'n. Me first."

            The sensation of being transported was always a peculiar one, and it seemed more so than usual this time … and it lasted longer … but despite the intensity of the ion storm surrounding the planetary atmosphere, there was simply no other choice. He _had_ to beam aboard and he couldn't let Malcolm sacrifice himself, not for something so trivial.

            The idea that in preventing Malcolm's desperate need to be a hero and sacrifice himself he might be sacrificing his own life was of secondary concern, or at least it was until it felt as though he were hanging there, a bunch of scrambled molecules as Hoshi liked to put it, and that he wasn't going to end up as anyone, anywhere.

            And then there was a sudden jolt and he was rematerializing. 

            He could tell immediately that something was wrong. Although the design of the transporter seemed as far as he could tell exactly the same, Malcolm was standing next to the crewman at the controls, and he was certain that he'd left the Lieutenant on the planet's surface. 

            "Commander." Malcolm's voice was brisk, clipped, and military. This was not really new, although it felt off somehow, somehow more sinister than usual. Also, the uniform was different. It was dark red where Trip's own was grey and black where Trip's was blue. Then, as Trip glanced down at himself, he saw that he was dressed similarly. Huh. That was odd. You'd think he would've remembered putting this on when he got dressed this morning.

            He took his clues from his friend. "Lieutenant," he replied, just as formally. He'd figure out what was going on eventually.

            "Ensign Sato was … concerned," Malcolm said mildly. "The transport was longer than usual."

            _Usual_? It wasn't like they used it that often. "I'll reassure her myself."

            "You have suffered no deleterious effects?" It felt less like a friend's concerned inquiry and more like an interrogation by an agent of the Gestapo.

            "I'm a little disconcerted, Lieutenant, but certainly fit for duty," Trip said. 

            "Excellent!" Malcolm said briskly. "You will go back on duty in one hour. The captain will be expecting a briefing on the atmospheric conditions on planet's surface when you have concluded your examination with Doctor Singerra."

            Who was Singerra? What about Doctor Phlox?

            But Malcolm was apparently finished with the interrogation or whatever it was and was marching out of the room.

            Trip shrugged his shoulders to himself. Whatever was happening, he would certainly find out eventually and there was no sense standing by himself in here when there were things to be done. He'd report to Sickbay and see if he could figure out what had happened to Doctor Phlox … 


	2. By God, Jim, Where Are We?

Chapter Two: By God, Jim, Where Are We?

            Doctor Singerra was a woman with short black hair and a cold manner. She didn't seem to have much interest in Commander Tucker's health; she conducted a quick medical investigation and then handed him over to someone that she addressed simply as "nurse" … and Trip was relieved to discover that "nurse" was the entity he'd known as Doctor Phlox.

            But it wasn't. Phlox was always chipper and engagingly interested in everything; this was a broken creature, Denobulan certainly and bearing a certain resemblance to the one he knew, but this starved and beaten man was nothing much like the one he knew. It was the Phlox he met in Sickbay and was forced by the cold, disturbing glance of Doctor Singerra to treat as peremptorily as the others did.

            Gosh, thought Trip, Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore … 

            But it wasn't like Trip to let those suffering _stay_ suffering. He caught the Denobulan by the hand and wasn't entirely surprised to see him flinch.

            "I know you don't sleep much," he whispered. "I'll be back to see you later."

            Phlox looked him at him uncomprehendingly, with more than a hint of fear in his face, but did not respond. 

            "Does the subject check out to your peculiar method of testing, nurse?" the doctor asked, her voice clipped.

            Phlox nodded. "Yes," he said. "The subject is healthy physically and mentally as far as I can tell."

            "Very well," said Doctor Singerra. "Commander Tucker, you will report to the Captain immediately."

            Trip nodded. "Of course, Doctor," he said.


	3. Gosh, Porthos, I Don't Think We're in Ka...

Chapter Three: Gosh, Porthos, I Don't Think We're in Kansas Anymore

            The ship was unsettlingly familiar. He knew that it was not his _Enterprise. His _Enterprise_ had a completely different crew. But physically the ship was the one he knew well, the NX-01 exactly as he knew her; he knew her almost as well as he knew his own body, and that, too, was different. There was a long white knife-scar down the right half of his chest that felt as though it was very old, and yet he was certain he would've remembered getting something like that. He was also certain it hadn't been there this morning when he'd stepped out of the shower._

            No, he knew that he was somewhere else, somewhere strange. He just didn't know where or how he was to get back. But he also knew that there was no way he could live like this for long, not the way that these people were treating their incarnation of Phlox … to see him like that, so thin and beaten, broken and miserable, cut Trip's compassionate soul deeply.

            No, Trip decided, he'd take care of this.

            "Ah. Welcome back, Trip." 

            Trip froze at the entrance to the briefing room. If he'd thought things were wrong before now, he'd underestimated the case. Occasionally when _his Captain Archer wasn't paying attention he would pick up traces of his chief engineer's southern drawl by accident. Trip had always found it amusing and had sometimes even gone out of his way to lay it on thick when Archer was around, to quietly encourage this behavior. After all, Trip reasoned, the American boys ought to stick together._

            This Captain Archer spoke with a drawl that was not accidental at all, but affected, thick, and sardonic – an obvious mockery of his Chief Engineer. It was clear that whoever he was replacing and the man in front of him did not see eye to eye.

            "Sir," Trip said stiffly, quashing his accent as much as he could.

            Captain Archer, all in black save for the maroon accents, smirked and leaned back in his chair, putting his boots up on the table. The easy, relaxed sprawl somehow put Trip even more on his guard. This wasn't a man who was sitting back to relax and watch water polo. This was a man who was mostly _predator. _

            "Nice of you to _join_ me, Tucker," Captain Archer said, putting harsh emphasis on the word "join". "Get held up by Ms. Sato, I suppose?"

            "No, sir. Doctor Singerra, sir," Trip answered. He felt as though his life rested on this conversation.

            The captain snorted derisively. "I see. Branching out, are we?"

            "Sir?"

            Captain Archer rolled his eyes. "Don't play innocent with me, Commander. I know what you're doing with the Ensign and you know I don't mind if you take a woman. But I do mind if you act stupid. You know I hate it when my crew acts stupid."

            "I'm sorry, sir," Trip said, wondering what he was getting into. "It won't happen again."

            "See that it doesn't," Archer snapped. "You're one of the finest minds in the Fleet, Commander. I'd like you to demonstrate it."

            "Of course, Captain," Trip said, raising his eyebrows slightly.

            Archer snorted again and shook his head. He took his boots off the table and leaned forward onto his knees, his eyes dark with intensity as he gazed at his chief engineer. "I understand you had a rough transport. Singerra says you've suffered no ill effects, just a mild disorientation. Are you fit to perform your duties?"

            "I'm fit, sir." 

            "See that you remain so," Archer said. "I'm certain that Hoshi will be absolutely _delighted to find your body whole and within standard operating parameters, engineer, but if you wear yourself out with her, I'll see to it you won't be capable of a repeat performance. Do I make myself clear?"_

            "Crystal, sir," Trip said, trying to keep himself from looking as flabbergasted as he felt.

            "Good! Now, I want a complete debrief on the environmental status of that planet. I want to know if it's suitable for colonization or whether you would recommend it for a military outpost. I want to know if there are any life-forms on the planet whose resistance would be more than negligible."

            "I'm aware of my assignment, Captain," Trip retorted sharply.

            Captain Archer slid easily out of his chair and stood up straight, tall and somehow menacing. He strolled casually around the side of the briefing table with a rolling stride that might have suited a pirate captain more than an explorer. "Are you being _smart_ with me, Commander?"

            "I understood you just gave me a direct order not to be stupid, sir," Trip said stiffly.

            Archer stood very close now and leaned forward, staring into his face. To see his friend's face looking at him with such an expression – full of sarcasm, venom, and above all, full of controlled anger, and nothing at all of the casual, cheerful, camp-counselor familiarity with which his real captain treated his bridge crew … it was terrifying. "Are you sassing me?" he said, his voice dangerously soft.

            "Yes, sir!" Trip said. 

            Archer stared at him for a moment, as though taking his measure. Then he threw back his head and laughed, folding his arms over his chest and walking away from Trip. "Good!" he said. "That's what I've always liked about you, Commander. You've got _balls_."

            Trip thought he might faint with relief. He'd judged correctly, then. Thank _God. He didn't know how much longer he could keep this up. But he allowed himself a small smile as he replied, "So I'm told, Captain."_

            Archer snorted again. "Fine. But I will not tolerate insubordination from you again, Commander. I like your spirit and that's how you've come so far in the ranks. But if I so much as hear a _whisper that you've stepped out of line, I'll bust your balls back to crewman second class faster than you can say 'Bob's your uncle'. Got it?"_

            "Got it, sir."

            "Perfect," said Captain Archer. He smiled coolly in a way that did not reach his eyes. "Now. Debrief."


	4. The Interminable Chapter Four

The Interminable Chapter Four

            It was only effort of will that kept Trip's knees from shaking as he marched smartly out of the Captain's presence and headed for his station in Engineering. He had no idea how he was going to get out of this alive, now knowing for certain that he couldn't adapt – not with his friends and colleagues so painfully warped – and that he had no idea how he'd gotten here, wherever here was. 

            At first he'd entertained the possibility that this was his _Enterprise and his crew, but the sight of Doctor Singerra's sterile, animal-free Sickbay had told him that that was dead wrong – this was a different _Enterprise_, with a different Captain Archer, a different Lieutenant Reed, a different …_

            "Me," he whispered as he stepped into the turbolift.

            There was another him, one that had sped up the ranks on the strength of Jonathan Archer's favor, one who was esteemed to be one of the best minds in the Fleet – relief that some things were the same, then – and who was apparently romantically entangled with … Hoshi Sato?

            Trip found the idea weird to say the least. Hoshi was like … she was like a little sister to him. They were friends and colleagues, nothing more; anything else would be, well, it would feel vaguely incestuous. But clearly, _this Trip felt no such compunctions … unless of course Captain Archer was laying allegations on his head that weren't true?_

            But no, the Malcolm stranger had also told him that Ensign Sato had been concerned … which didn't necessarily mean anything, but if they weren't involved, why would the concern of one particular person be brought to his attention?

            Anyway, it didn't matter. He'd deal with it when he ran into Hoshi.

            For now, there were other problems.

            The Vulcan was waiting for him in Engineering when he got there.


	5. The Latest Vulcan Fashions

Chapter Five: The Latest Vulcan Fashions

            This was not the T'pol he was used to.

            Although physically she was much the same, down to that strange bowl-cut so many Vulcans seemed to sport, her uniform was not the familiar Vulcan Science Academy patterned green. Instead, it was sheer black, lashed about her waist with a utility belt. Her midriff was bare – the uniform was cut open, down diagonally, from just beneath her breasts. She wore knee-high boots with three-inch stiletto heels. There was obviously a bladed weapon in at least one of them.

            "Commander," T'pol said. She sat down on one of the engineering panels' edges and crossed her legs with a certain dramatic flair that led him to believe she had practiced it carefully ever since encountering humanity.

            Holy cow, thought Trip, and fought to retain composure.

            "Subcommander?" he said.

            She laced her fingers together and rested them neatly over one black-clad knee. "I understand you will return to your work recalibrating the plasmicophic ferangulator now?"

            "Of course," Trip answered, wondering what that meant.

            "May I first commandeer your services?" T'pol inquired solicitously. Trip somehow got the vague impression that somewhere beneath the cool, innocently-phrased sentence, the Vulcan was purring.

            "Er … sure," he said. "I mean, certainly, Subcommander."

            T'pol inclined her head to him, the first familiar mannerism he had seen from her yet, and said, "Lieutenant Reed could use your assistance in the development of the project … if it's not too much trouble." Despite the veneer of calm that was laid over her words, there was something about the way she said Malcolm's name and rank that made Trip inexplicably nervous.

            "I'm certain the ferangulator can wait a little while longer," Trip said. "As long as I finish it before the end of my shift."

            T'pol arched one fine eyebrow at him. "Absolutely, Commander," she said gently. "My gratitude. I will accompany you to the armoury immediately."

            Trip nodded. "Hey, Bexler," he said.

            "Sir!" Bexler shouted smartly from her position behind the engineering board. A cursory glance in her direction gave Trip another surprise – the female version of the Starfleet uniform was subtly different from the male one, and although the difference was nowhere near as dramatic as the difference between his T'pol's uniform and this one's, it seemed that someone had made an effort to sexify the original design. It was unnerving. 

            "Hold the fort here while I'm gone, would ya?" Trip said.

            "Yes, sir," Bexler said. She didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary about his turn of phrase. Possibly his counterpart wasn't as militarily inclined as everyone else here; if he'd been promoted on virtue of his spirit and his relationship with the captain, it would make sense for him to be a little strange about the chain of command the regular acceptance of duty. Or possibly you could take the Trip Tucker out of the universe, but you couldn't take the universe out of the Trip Tucker … or something.

            This was all just so weird. 


	6. How D'You Get Into Those Pants, Baby?

Chapter Six: How D'You Get into Those Pants, Baby?

            Trip walked with T'pol all the way to the armoury, trying to get used to the way that people saluted them as they went through the halls. The salute on this ship was much different from the friendly, American-based one that the Starfleet he was familiar with used; this one was vaguely reminiscent of the way Germans used to salute each other in World War II movies. It made him uncomfortable, although it was probably the least of his worries. 

            "I am certain the Lieutenant will appreciate your attention to his personal project, Commander," T'pol remarked quietly. 

            Inwardly wondering why the hell the science officer was playing gopher for Malcolm of all people, Trip nodded. "Well, it's a fascinating project," he said. He had no idea what this version of Malcolm Reed was playing with and he suspected that whatever it was wouldn't be pretty.

            "I suspect that it will do much to improve Starfleet's disciplinary techniques," T'pol said. "The Lieutenant is making excellent progress." There was almost proprietary pride in her voice.

            The doors to the armoury opened and T'pol led him inside. "Security code 0401," she said to a panel that lit up as the door opened. He filed this information away for future reference.

            "Ah … Subcommander." Lieutenant Malcolm Reed strode easily across the armoury, a leering grin rippling across his angular face. "So good of you to come." He gave her the odd Nazi salute they all seemed to use and then slid one arm around her, his fingers sliding across her bare midriff.

            The Vulcan slid easily into the armoury officer's arms as though it was the most natural position for her in the world. "I have brought you a little present, Lieutenant Reed," she said. T'pol's perfectly manicured nails slid down the front of Malcolm's uniform, venturing into ever more intimate territory.

            He caught her wrist in one of his hands and brought her palm to his mouth and nipped at the flesh. "Not on duty, darling," he growled softly, sliding the other hand down to squeeze her rump. "Never when I'm working."

            Trip felt a little queasy. The picture that was being presented to him was bizarre on more levels than he could really imagine. He cleared his throat. "Did you want me for something, Malcolm?" he said, and then immediately wondered from the quizzical expression on the lieutenant's face whether or not he'd overstepped his bounds referring to the younger man by his first name.

            "Something, isn't she?" Malcolm said, his tone registering fondness and something else – a twisted version of the awkward schoolboy sexual appraisal with which Trip had heard his version of Malcolm discuss members of the opposite sex. Malcolm slapped T'pol's bum affectionately.  

            She slid away from his grasp with movements like a cat and oozed to the armoury's exit. She turned at the doorway and ran her tongue deliberately over her palm where Malcolm had nipped her. Then she turned away and walked out the door, with only a purred, "Later, Lieutenant."

            What twisted version of Malcolm would indulge in such a sordid display? And then, because Trip was honest about himself and his friends, he corrected the thought: What twisted version of Malcolm would indulge in such a sordid display while on duty? The man who stood in front of him was like a strange, sadistic character of the man he knew, respected, liked; and yet there were elements of the familiar here, as well. Because the stiff-backed, duty-obsessed Brit was back as soon as the female presence disappeared, and that was familiar enough … and even when she was here, even when he'd been pawing her considerable assets as though he were on shore leave with a willing green Orion escapee, they'd referred to each other by rank instead of by name.

            It was like this was a whole different universe – a funhouse mirror reflection of his own. 

            Trip wondered if the image would stay burned into his retinas until the day he died – the image of his friend Malcolm, squeezing their Vulcan colleague's behind with a leer and a "Something, isn't she?" … or the image of T'pol's fingers, sliding sensually down Malcolm's chest towards parts of him that a Vulcan ought only to have an interest in once every seven years from everything he'd gathered on the subject … 

            What game was she playing with him? Obviously she was using him, _and he was using her, but to what purpose? The possibilities made his head hurt._

            "So how are things with you and T'pol?" Trip asked, hoping that this question wasn't out of character for the man he apparently was in this version of reality.

            Malcolm smirked. "Not even the Captain has managed to get ahold of a finer woman," he said. "It's a real feather in my cap, as you Yankees put it."

            "Right," Trip said. Well, that was partially an answer … so T'pol was a status symbol to him as well as a sex object. What did she want to bother with him for?

            "I wanted you to have a look at the agonizer," Malcolm was saying matter-of-factly. "It only exists in prototype form now, but I want to try it out."

            "The agonizer, huh?" Trip glanced around. 

            Lieutenant Reed picked up a small contraption that looked like it was made of two tiny needles and several suckers. "Naturally I will begin developing a more compact apparatus once I have a working prototype for the pain inducer," he said. "I think I can manage something quite elegant … but of course the device must work properly before I begin to be concerned with presentation."

            "Naturally," Trip said. He took the agonizer from Malcolm and examined it. It looked innocuous enough at first glance. "Where were you thinking of applying it?"

            "This version would need to touch open skin. I think that once I manage to achieve the proper effect with this model I'll begin developing ways to expand the field," Malcolm said.

            "It looks like everything is in working order," Trip said after a few minutes, doing his best to suppress his horror at what this device was apparently constructed to do.

            Malcolm smiled, obviously pleased. "Of course. I wouldn't ask you to test it on yourself," he said, although the expression in the grey eyes suggested that it was only Trip's status as a superior officer that protected him from the inventor's expanding impulses. "I'll have Doctor Singerra send down one of her slaves."

            Trip paled, but luckily Malcolm was looking at his agonizer prototype.

            "Reed to Sickbay," Malcolm said briskly to his panel.

            "Singerra here. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

            "I need one of the slaves for an experiment, Doctor," Malcolm said. 

            "Really?" Singerra sounded both interested and vaguely amused. "What kind of experiment?"

            "If it's successful, we'll both be recorded in the annals of science and discipline, Doctor," Malcolm said, a hint of dryness in his voice that hurt Trip with its familiarity.       

            "Which one do you want?" asked Dr. Singerra.

            "Just send me one of them," he said, testily. "I don't care which one."


	7. A Shadow of the Past

Chapter Seven: A Shadow of the Past

            Trip was thankful that he didn't have long to wait before a muscular security-man came to the door and said, "One of the aliens to see you, sir."

            "Good," Malcolm said briskly, turning away from his panel. "Enter."

            The security guard entered, holding the arm of someone that made Trip's spirits sink lower than almost anything else he'd seen around here.

            "Ah'Len," he said softly.

            She looked at him with recognition – but it was clear that this Ah'Len was no friend to the man whose shoes he filled. Her expression registered terror and barely-concealed hatred, as well as bewilderment, which he hazarded had something to do with the tenderness in his tone. 

            His association with his own reality's Ah'Len had been a strange one, and brief, and it had had embarrassing consequences, but looking back on the time they'd spent together, he had no regrets; they'd parted on amicable enough terms, for all that she was the father (or mother) of the child he'd carried (or at least had been an incubator for). 

            "Ah, yes," Malcolm said, glancing carelessly at her with only the barest acknowledgment of her presence. "The Xyrillian. That's good, Crewman, you may go."

            "Sir," said the crewman who had entered at Ah'Len's side, and left.

            "She was your concubine at one point, wasn't she, Commander?" Malcolm said. There was something teasing in his tone, something that wasn't friendly ribbing but had something crueler and less than cheerful at the base of it.

            Trip smiled coolly at the man who so resembled his friend. "For a little while," he said.

            "A bit … odd, for your tastes, I should think," Malcolm said, the barest edge of a sordid snicker colouring his voice. Trip stared at him humorlessly. "I should think you'd like them a little more … human."

            "I wonder where T'pol is," Trip returned sardonically.

            Trip was gratified to see that in some ways, the Malcolm of this reality was similar to the one he knew; they both reddened in similar ways when embarrassed. 

            "Well," Malcolm said, opting to pretend his conversation about her that he'd had right in front of her with the Chief Engineer had never happened, "Ah'Len, is it? I have a little experiment that I'm going to do, and if it works properly you should come out of it alive."

            The offhand, almost cheerful way with which he referred to the loss of Ah'Len's life disturbed Trip mightily.

            "Hold her for me, will you, Trip? If she tries to run it will probably have a deleterious effect and I don't _actually_ want to permanently damage the subject," Malcolm said pleasantly.

            "Certainly, Lieutenant," said Trip, trying to quash the budding hatred he felt for the man that he was growing to believe was in no way Lieutenant Malcolm Reed at least enough to comply with the request rather than trying to throw the man across the room … for one thing, it was more than certain that he would lose any battle he tried to pick with the man.

            And if he were to win, by some miracle, he suspected that he'd have a Vulcan woman out for his blood, and even in his _own_ reality he knew that would be hardly a positive thing.

            He took hold of the Xyrillian's arm. It was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life, watching the armoury officer affix the agonizer apparatus to the flesh at the base of Ah'Len's neck.

            No. The hardest thing he had ever done was hold onto her while her head was thrown back, her mouth open in a silent scream of anguish and pain, before her legs gave out from the agony and she slumped against him. 

            Malcolm reached out and took the agonizer off of her flesh. "Hmm," he said. 

            "Tell me, Lieutenant," Trip growled, "were you _trying_ to completely destroy her, or was it just a happy side effect?"

            "Unfortunate," Malcolm said mildly, looking at Trip with a faintly perplexed expression. "The subject is permanently damaged."

            "She's either dead or crippled," Trip snapped. "I thought this thing was supposed to improve discipline! What game are you playing, Mr. Reed?"

            Malcolm was taken aback. "There are necessary risks in any experiment …"

            "Any schoolboy would tell you that an experiment on a live subject needs safety precautions – some kind of control – what use is an experiment that destroys the subject? How can you monitor anything? What kind of operation do you think we're _running_ here? What sort of hit-and-miss program are you heading up – here, in the armoury, the head of the tactical department! Malcolm, I am _amazed at you. I thought you were supposed to be this brilliant tactical mind, this _genius_ of weapons technology … so what the _hell _did you think you were doing?" Trip was fuming and furious, his nostrils flared and his eyes burning – barely thinking straight enough not to try and ring Malcolm's neck, so far into the other man's face that their noses almost touched._

            Malcolm stood at attention, his back straight, his spine stiffer than a board. "Commander," he said. "Your reprimand is warranted. I accept the responsibility for my actions."

            Trip took a step back, staring coldly at the armoury officer. "Hers may not have been a human life, but it was still a foolish waste. Your disregard for the welfare of the less fortunate is appalling, Lieutenant."

            Malcolm blinked. "Yes, sir."

            "I ought to have you busted down to Crewman Second Class for this," Trip grumped.

            Malcolm stared straight ahead of him. "Please, Commander," he said. "There will be no repeat of the laxity I have showed during this incident."

            "This time you've spent in Subcommander T'pol's lap has obviously softened you," Trip said. "You were a good officer, Mr. Reed."

            "I had no idea you thought so highly of me, Commander," Malcolm said quietly.

            Trip smiled coldly. "Well, you were, before that Vulcan spider got you into her clutches."

            "Sir!" Malcolm said smartly. "The Subcommander and I …"

            "She has weakened you, Lieutenant," Trip said. "Women are a _distraction. One that men like you can't afford."_

            Malcolm looked stunned and then angry. "Permission to speak freely, sir," he snapped.

            "Really?" Trip said, affecting surprise. "Permission granted."

            "Look to your own wounds, Commander," Malcolm said. "As if you haven't taken a woman of your own."

            "Ah, yes, but see, Lieutenant Reed, Hoshi has not proved to be such a distraction to me that I am incapable of performing my duties efficiently," Trip snapped.

            Malcolm looked down, his face burning. "Yes, sir." 

            "I will not see a repeat of today's incident, Lieutenant. You have grown far too careless. Do I make myself clear?" 

            "Yes, sir," Malcolm said. He glanced up again. " … Commander?"

            Trip raised his eyebrows at the man. "Yes, Lieutenant Reed?"

            Malcolm swallowed. "You won't be mentioning this to the Captain, will you?"

            Trip grinned. "We'll just have to see, won't we, Lieutenant?"

            Malcolm paled visibly. "Yes, Commander," he said grimly.

            Trip reached over and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Mercy is a useful tool, Lieutenant. Useful for procuring _loyalty."_

            Malcolm looked at him. "A Reed's loyalty is not cheaply bought, Mr. Tucker," he said softly. "It makes him a commodity in these days when it's bought and sold."

            "A Reed's _rank isn't cheaply bought either, Malcolm," Trip said, just as softly, inwardly gratified that __some things about the Malcolms were the same. His own Malcolm Reed considered duty, loyalty and honour to be the most important things in his life … he was glad to see that there were some things integral to being Malcolm Reed that even the distortions of a reality as depraved as this one apparently couldn't take away._

            Malcolm closed his eyes. "You're a good man, Trip," he said, in a way that made Trip wonder under what circumstances he'd earned the right to use his version of Commander Tucker's first name. "And you have this Reed's loyalty, as long as you protect his interests."

            Trip smiled slowly. "I will keep all of your secrets, Malcolm," he said. "Until the grave."

            It wasn't until he left the armoury and began heading quickly through the corridors towards his quarters that the enormity of everything that had just happened began to sink in. He'd watched Ah'Len being reduced to a crippled vegetable ... he'd gone off on a shouting rampage at the man who'd done it in a way that left his conscience still screaming for justice … and he'd somehow managed to gain the loyalty of the most useful man aboard this reality's _Enterprise__._

            Trip wondered what in the world was next. 


	8. A Confrontation

Chapter Eight: A Confrontation

            It wasn't until Trip was nearly to the door to his quarters that it occurred to him that this incarnation of Captain Archer probably wouldn't be as sympathetic to needing a moment's personal time in your quarters when you'd just watched someone you'd been briefly involved with being tortured into a cripple. His association with Ah'Len had been brief and hectic, and although it provided him with unique insight into the human female psyche he was fairly certain it wasn't an experience he would want to repeat; still, he was still convinced that she had been mostly innocent in that, and this beaten, enslaved version of her – that a man who resembled him exactly had obviously committed some kind of atrocity against – being tortured because a warped version of Malcolm Reed had wanted to play with his new toy was more than his battered conscience could take. Still, this man ran a much tighter ship than the Captain Archer Trip knew, and he figured he'd better get back there now that there weren't any fellow officers vouching for his being in the pursuit of his duty.

            Bexler saluted him upon his return to engineering. "We've managed to get the ferangulator back online, sir," she said, when he asked her for a report. 

            "I'll just check over what you've done, then," said Trip.

            "Naturally," said Bexler.

            The engineering team had done an exquisite job as far as Trip could tell; the equipment was familiar, even though the term used to describe it seemed strange. After he looked over the repairs on the ferangulator, he went on a sweep of engineering, examining the stations of all the members of his engineering team. He avoided asking any probing questions of these men and women because he had no idea which ones would be loyal to their direct superior officer as chief engineer, which were loyal to the captain, and which would turn on a dime whenever it suited their own interests – this last he suspected applied to just about everyone he'd met here, with the _possible exception of Malcolm. Trip wasn't sure, but he thought that no matter how un-Reedy Malcolm got, duty and loyalty would still be paramount or else he'd cease entirely to be anything like himself._

            It felt so strange, being unable to trust anyone. He was used to the genial atmosphere and caring, trusting environment of the _Enterprise__ that he'd been serving on; this place was cold, cruel, unprincipled … _

            A communicator whistled at him. "Bridge to Engineering."

            "Tucker here. Yes, Captain?"

            "If it won't take up too much of your valuable time," said Captain Archer's doppelgang in a voice dripping with sarcasm, "your presence would be useful on the Bridge at the moment."

            "On my way," Trip replied. He shook his head. "Bexler?"

            "Of course, Commander," she said, with the tiniest of smiles.

            Trip left Engineering with some regret. It was a marginally friendly atmosphere. He decided to talk to Bexler some when he got back to his own reality – if he ever got back to his own reality – and see if she was exponentially friendlier there. But Trip couldn't see what sort of deranged system could produce such caricatures of his friends – and it was clear that not everyone in this universe was warped; some had to be decent, suppressing their instincts for the sake of the system, just as in his own universe some people were naturally more ambitious and cutthroat than others by nature but tended to suppress that for the good of the kinder, gentler system … Trip thought of Malcolm's chafing at the easygoing way Captain Archer ran his ship, at his lack of attention to detail and to the proprieties of rank, and smiled to himself as he entered the lift and directed it to the Bridge.

            Or Hoshi Sato – he'd been trying to avoid thinking about her since he discovered that she and his other self were apparently involved in some kind of relationship. He had trouble with the idea that any incarnation of Hoshi Sato could be as despicably warped as some of the others on this ship. 

            Trip entered the Bridge. 

            Captain Archer was lounging in his command chair with every appearance of indolence, but Trip could tell that his piercing eyes were on almost everyone on the bridge at once. They didn't rest on any one person for very long, but he had everyone in his sights, observing, making certain that nothing was amiss.

            He spared the least amount of attention for Ensign Mayweather, who was hunched in the helmsman's chair in a way that made it seem like Travis was trying to make himself appear as small and unobtrusive as possible, and Ensign Sato, who was apparently wrapped up in a long list of tasks at her station.

            Trip spared a moment longer for Hoshi before he announced his presence on the Bridge. Her hair was down, in thick black waves to the midst of her back. The maroon and black that made up these uniforms, in a format subtly sexified and more appealing than the grey and blue with which Trip was so familiar, suited her. Her boots had stiletto heels and visible sheaths for weaponry. That was not unusual around here; most people seemed to be carrying knives of some sort around, including himself, tucked away inside his uniform. He hadn't seen any on Malcolm, but Trip was certain that Lieutenant Reed had merely found an ingenious place to conceal them.

            She looked up when she saw him. She smiled a little but didn't give him any more than that; instead, she returned her attention to her duties at her station with renewed fervor.

            She looked astonishing.

            "Reporting as ordered, Captain," Trip said finally, when it became clear that Archer was not going to do more than glance at him until he did so.

            "I'm so glad," Captain Archer said, not bothering to sit up in his chair. "I'd like you to take a look at T'pol's scanners for me and tell me what you think of the contents of that asteroid field."

            The request seemed absurd. Trip glanced at T'pol. "Captain?" he said. Surely T'pol was more qualified to make a scientific analysis of the contents of an asteroid field. 

            "Today, Trip," Archer said, sneering the nickname. 

            Trip glanced into the scanners with an apologetic look in T'pol's direction, although she paid him little heed. She stood, her hands clasped neatly behind her back, eyes front and steady on Captain Archer's face. Trip wasn't sure how she managed to make _that_ get-up look professional, but then again, sometimes he wasn't sure how she managed to make her Vulcan High Command uniform look professional either.

            The information he found there surprised him.

            "Traces of organic life … this used to be a planet, Captain. It's been shattered by …" Trip swallowed, trying not to believe what he himself was saying. "… uh, decimated by some kind of weapon I've never come across before, sir."

            "Really," Captain Archer said. He smiled and shifted in his chair to raise his eyebrows at T'pol, who looked back at him, her gaze still chilly. "Something you're not telling us, Subcommander?"

            "I have given you all information that the High Command has authorized be given to any human in the Empire, Captain Archer," T'pol answered coldly. "Do not ask me for more."

            "That's funny," Captain Archer said, all traces of humor gone from his voice, which had become a soft lid over a bubbling furnace of barely-controlled anger. He slowly got out of his chair, unfolding his limbs and sliding to his feet in a way that was somehow more intimidating than if he'd just got up quickly like a normal person. "I could have _sworn you Vulcans promised to give us all information that you thought the Empire might appreciate."_

            "That is correct," T'pol answered unflappably. She was taking no guff from the human captain, regardless of what intimidation tactics he used on her. 

            "I would think," Archer drawled, strolling across the bridge to confront T'pol directly as he spoke, "that a weapon of such destructive power that it could annihilate an entire planet would be of interest to the Empire!"

            "That is not for you to decide," T'pol said, her tone and face utterly serene. She stared back at Archer, the very control in her face challenging him.

            "Oh, yes, my sweet, sensual science officer," Captain Archer said, his voice dripping with cruel sarcasm, his face bare inches from hers. "I do believe it is." 

            T'pol raised an eyebrow at him. "Your denial of the obvious is … illogical, Captain Archer," she said. 

            "Ms. Sato," Archer said, without moving, "summon Lieutenant Reed to the Bridge, please."

            "Yes, sir," Hoshi said, her voice quite soft. Trip wondered what she was thinking. "Lieutenant Reed, Captain Archer requires your presence on the Bridge immediately." 

            "Illogical?" Archer repeated, smiling at her.

            T'pol did not even blink. "Yes," she said.

            "I want all information that you have on the weapon, T'pol, and I want it now," Archer said.

            "Such childish impatience is the mark of an immature species and is the reason why you and your Empire are being denied your _information_," T'pol said crisply, with only the subtlest edge of contempt.

            Archer stared at her in ferocious silence for what seemed like a very long time. "_Really," he said._

            The Bridge doors opened and Malcolm entered. "Lieutenant Reed reporting as ordered, sir," he said briskly.

            Archer did not look at him, remaining within T'pol's personal space instead. "Station," was all he said to the lieutenant.

            A flicker of irritation rippled across Malcolm's face. Trip could almost _hear the angry, rebellious thought that was lancing through his friend's alternate self's brain: __you mean you dragged me away from my important__ work in the armory for no bloody good reason? _

            "Yes, sir," was all Malcolm said.

            Dissatisfaction was written in Lieutenant Reed's posture as he took his station, and although he regained his composure quickly enough, the brief lapse gave Trip an idea.

            He's resentful, Trip thought, _and_ he's really good with weapons. Maybe I can use this … 

            "The weapon, T'pol," Archer said.

            Malcolm did not even look up, his eyes trained on his station. Strangely, Trip suddenly realized that he was the only one paying the confrontation between the captain and the science officer more than cursory apparent heed – Travis's eyes were fixed on his station and he retained his strange, self-shrinking posture. Hoshi was busying herself with the tasks at her station, stopping every now and again to tuck a few stray hairs behind her ears – this Hoshi evidently hadn't arrived at the sensible conclusion of _ponytail_ in the way that his Hoshi had. 

            "It was destroyed with the ship that bore it," T'pol said, closing her eyes. "The weapon was unstable and impractical. The Science Academy suggested that further research continue on its development for use in the war against the Andorians but funding was pulled with the destruction of the _Katraa'nihir_ and the project was scrapped."

            "Why should I believe you?" Archer demanded, suspiciously.

            "I am your only source of information on Vulcan weapons technology, Captain," T'pol pointed out coolly. "You have no choice but to believe me."

            Archer thought about this for a moment. Then he smiled, just as coldly as before, although this time without so much of an angry edge. "Very well," he said. "Thank you, _Subcommander_." 

            And on the Bridge, in front of his entire command crew, Captain Archer leaned forward and kissed T'pol on the mouth.

            This was not meant to be tenderness, but a continuation of his mockery of her; the obviousness of this was blatant in the Captain's attitude and posture, and in T'pol's reaction to it.

            Trip felt sick.

            She yanked her head backward without a sound and, suddenly, a long-bladed dagger was leveled at Archer's throat. 

            "Your advances," T'pol growled, "are unwelcome."

            Archer grinned mirthlessly at her. "Really?" he said. "I hadn't guessed."

            "Touch me again," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand that held no knife, "and you _will_ regret it, Captain."

            "Threatening my life, Subcommander? In front of so many witnesses?" Archer inquired.

            "Not your life, Captain. Merely …" And without finishing the sentence, the Vulcan's knife slid down – slowly, almost sensually – from where it touched his Adam's apple to where it touched the crotch of his uniform.

            Captain Archer took a step back. "You play a dangerous game, T'pol."

            T'pol smiled. It was a tiny upturn of the corners of her full mouth, cold and terrifying and so completely uncharacteristic that Trip felt utterly shocked. "So do you, Captain. So do you."

            With that, she turned and left the Bridge.

            The captain returned to his command chair and it was as though the incident had never happened. 

            Trip desperately wanted to go home. 


	9. Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

Chapter Nine: Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

            "NX-01 _Enterprise Chief Medical Officer's Log, Doctor Phlox recording. I have been unable to find any physical reason for Commander Tucker's hallucinations. He has developed none of the physical symptoms of a paranoid schizophrenic or of a man suffering brain trauma and he retains all of his motor skills and, indeed, all of his technical expertise as far as I can tell … however, the commander is undeniably suffering from delusions, although it's clear to me that whatever caused them is not affecting his immune system and so probably isn't any kind of pathogen. His hallucinations are therefore not contagious; they are, however, apparently very far-reaching._

            "I have as yet been unable to determine the full extent of his hallucinations. He seems to recognize everyone aboard, and yet he doesn't. The first occurrence of strange behavior on his part was immediately following his away mission to Mibanis Prime with Lieutenant Reed; however, I do not see that these symptoms can be traced to anything involving the planet itself or the unusual weather effects surrounding the planet as the Lieutenant suffers no similar ill effects.

            "Ensign Sato has suggested to me that the transporter device might have produced some kind of delusional state in Mr. Tucker. If this is the case, I am uncertain what precisely we can do about it, as the closest person we have aboard to an expert on the workings of the transporter device is currently strapped to a bunk in my Sickbay.

            "Commander Tucker stepped off the transporter platform and demanded to know why Lieutenant Reed wasn't at his post. Crewman Rostov informed him that Reed hadn't beamed up yet and Tucker grew quite agitated, insisting that he had ordered Malcolm to beam up first. When Malcolm beamed aboard, Commander Tucker grew quite violent with him and kept asking with increasing agitation why and how the lieutenant had not followed a direct order. Lieutenant Reed and Ensign Sato, who had been monitoring communications between the away team and the bridge, both insisted that the commander had in fact insisted on being the first to beam aboard. 

            "Tucker demanded to bring this to the attention of Captain Archer, and was apparently very confused by the captain's demeanor when he came in and asked what was going on. He also demanded to know why he wasn't wearing his uniform and insisted on the immediate return of his weaponry. 

            "Captain Archer ordered him to report to Sickbay. Lieutenant Reed provided a security detail and turned up himself in need of treatment for a dislocated shoulder and a bruised eye. 

            "I was forced to restrain Commander Tucker when he kept insisting on the presence of a Doctor Singerra and demanded to know how a slave like me got control of Sickbay in her absence …

            "The delusion is magnificent in its complexity. He seems insistent that this _Enterprise is not the _right_ __Enterprise, or that we aren't the right crew and have taken over from our rightful crew. At one point earlier this afternoon, Ensign Sato paid him a brief visit and he grew so agitated he nearly broke his bonds, screaming at her to back him up, that he'd explain everything later, if she loved him like she ought to she would understand. He seemed convinced that Hoshi and himself were involved in a relationship and apparently wanted her to indulge in a mating ritual with him! He grew so agitated when she refused that I was forced to sedate him._

            "Delightfully fascinating! I look forward to studying his delusions in further depth when he awakens!"


	10. Heavenly Hoshi

Chapter Ten: Heavenly Hoshi

            Trip entered his quarters, stripped off his uniform and let it crumple to the floor, and sat down on his bed in his underwear. The room was not decorated in its ordinary way; his harmonica was nowhere to be found, although at that he wasn't really surprised. There was no polished set for playing Go sitting in the corner. Everything was done subtly and there was a feminine touch about the place. Evidently, Hoshi lived with him.

            Well, he could deal with that. They were very close friends in his own universe, after all. It occurred to him that if they were living together in this universe that he would probably have to treat this like she was his girlfriend … and they were living together …

            Trip closed his eyes and thought of how she'd looked on the bridge, in those heels, with her hair down like that … and realized, smiling slightly, that it really wouldn't be that much of a challenge to be Hoshi Sato's lover for a little while.

            The door to his quarters opened and Hoshi strolled in, her stiletto heels clicking against the floor.

            She still looked gorgeous. With her hair down, in that close-fitting uniform, looking slightly more made-up than _his_ Hoshi usually did … 

            "The engineer's woman has arrived," she said, a touch wryly. 

            He sat up on the bed and looked at her. "Hi, Hoshi," he said.

            "Mm," she said, picking his uniform up off the floor. She held it up, raising her eyebrows at him. "Reverting, are we? And here I thought I had you trained."

            Oh. Huh. This might take some getting used to; it had been a long time since Trip had shared his life with a woman on a regular basis and it seemed that his alternate self, while barbaric in many ways, had shed many of the conveniences of bachelorhood in his association with the linguist.

            "I thought you had better things to be concerned about than my laundry," he said wryly.

            "_I'll say," Hoshi said, tossing his things at an unobtrusive laundry basket. "Today was impossible, Trip, just impossible. I don't know how much more of this I can take." She rubbed at her eyes with the palms of her hands, sighing as she sat down next to him on the bunk. _

            Trip wasn't sure how to deal with this. "Er," he said, "what … oh."

            Hoshi's mouth quirked into a little grin. "You're so helpful, darling," she said. "But …" And she shook her head. "I came out here because I had to."

            "Captain Archer wanted you for this mission," Trip said. "He wanted the best."

            "Captain Archer always wants the best," Hoshi said, "and he has … ways … of getting what he wants."

            "I know," Trip said, hesitantly stroking her shoulders.

            She glanced at him oddly, as though startled by the tentativeness of the gesture … or maybe by the fact that he was listening to her; it occurred to Trip that he really had no idea what sort of Trip Tucker she was used to dealing with on the intimate level.

            Well, there was only so far he was willing to go to maintain pretenses. He wasn't going to hurt her. She wasn't like the others. 

            But then again, how many really were like the others? This universe's T'pol had shown signs of integrity; she merely demonstrated the background of a more sensual, warrior-based culture. Captain Archer … Trip had sensed traces of his old friend in this Captain Archer as well, it was just that the scathing, biting, sarcastic creature that he had interacted with here was never usually aimed inward toward those who the captain liked; possibly this Jonathan Archer didn't know any other way to interact. 

            And Malcolm – blending so easily with these crueler, more militaristic surroundings; where his Malcolm was lonely and kind of socially pathetic while being strongly career-minded and devoted to duty, this one was perverse and twisted socially, a stickler for the system, but still retaining traces of respect for duty and honor that characterized the Malcolm that Trip knew so well at home.

            He'd been able to play to Captain Archer, to play to Malcolm Reed, because he understood their other selves so very well in his own reality; these were twistings, caricatures of the people he knew, but in many ways they _were_ the people he knew. It was only the system that they operated in that was different.

            The Empire, as they called it, was Starfleet, but without decency or moral concerns.

            Trip shivered at the thought.

            So even as the Hoshi Sato he knew so well deep inside felt as though where she really belonged was in the classroom and not on the bridge of the fleet's flagship, this Hoshi Sato maintained the façade of living within the system for the sake of her career – and under whatever persuasion of blackmail that her captain had inflicted upon her – but inwardly felt frustrated and unhappy with the system …

            The parallels. He could _use_ the parallels. He was sure of it.

            "You're awfully _nice_ today," Hoshi said, looking at him with eyebrows raised. "So who's the unlucky one?"

            "Unlucky one?" Trip asked, blinking.

            Hoshi snorted delicately. "You've made someone miserable today, haven't you?" she said. "So of course you're feeling magnanimous."

            "Oh … Malcolm," Trip said.

            Hoshi rolled her eyes. "Really, Trip. I wish you wouldn't."

            "He deserved it," Trip said fervently.

            "I'm sure he did," she said, and sighed. 

"I'm trying to imagine what he would do if he had to choose between T'pol and a weapon, like she had to today," Trip remarked.

She leaned back on her elbows and glanced toward the ceiling of their shared quarters. "He'd take the weapon without a second thought," she said. "He's so cold, so calculating. He gives me the shivers."

            "Really?" Trip looked at her, surprised.

            "He's just so … good at it," Hoshi said. "It's creepy. It's like he was _made to be a servant of the Empire."_

            "I don't know," Trip said thoughtfully, "I think there's more to him than meets the eye."

            "Maybe," Hoshi said doubtfully. She looked tired. "I think I need a shower," she said.

            Trip hesitated, then offered her a little grin. "Want some company?"

            She seemed surprised by the offer, tilting her head slightly to one side, regarding him as though she'd never seen him before. "All right," she said. 

            "Good," he said, "I was beginning to get a little stinky."

            "I wasn't going to say anything," Hoshi said, laughing softly. It sounded like she hadn't had occasion to laugh in a long time.

            Trip had never seen Hoshi naked before. It was … an experience, watching her take her clothes off. And he had a feeling that some of the scars and old bruises on this Hoshi's body wouldn't be on the body of the Hoshi at home. He wondered how many of them his other self had inflicted, and winced as he finished undressing.   
            She was so beautiful as she stepped into the streaming, hot water. He almost forgot to get in with her, he was so wrapped up in watching the droplets running over her – dampening her long raven hair, streaming over her face as she faced into the shower with her eyes closed, down her whole body. It was as though he had never seen her before.

            He helped her cleanse herself with gentle fingers, soaping her body … and although she seemed surprised and confused by the attention, she smiled softly and returned the favor.

            And they made love in the shower, in the bathroom, and eventually back out in the quarters with the air strange and cool on their soaked skin. It was like nothing Trip had ever experienced before; he'd had women before, of course, but she seemed so tentative at first, as though this was a completely new and different experience for _her,_ and then so passionate, so tender, so enthusiastic. Trip was certain that his other self had slept with her before, but it was clear that in this department at least he and the Trip she was used to were very different people. 

            What with one thing and another, when they were finished they were lying together on the bunk in their quarters.

            "Thanks," Trip said, when he found words to express himself. It fell absurdly short, but what could he really say? 

            "Thanks?" Hoshi repeated, incredulous. Her voice broke. He turned to look at her and was shocked to see that she was weeping – tears rolling down her cheeks.

            "Hoshi? What's the matter?" he said.

            Hoshi stared at him through her tears. "I … I'm sorry, Trip," she whispered. "It's never been like that before – you've never been like this before. I don't … I don't know what's happened to you, but …" And she buried her tear-soaked face in his naked shoulder, her body shuddering with sobs. "Please. Don't let it stop."

            Trip held her gently, aware in the back of his mind that he would never – _never – look at Hoshi Sato in the same light again … and wondering if somehow he'd blown his cover here, in this strange reality, just by being too gentle, too tender with a woman who so clearly loved him (for whatever insane reason she might have to do so)._

            And he thought, as he stroked her damp hair and tried to soothe her, to stem the freshet of tears as she wept into him, that even if he had, it was damned worth it. 


	11. Aftermath

Chapter Eleven: Aftermath

            They lay in bed together, Hoshi nestled sleeping in the crook of Trip's arm. He felt more than a little guilty. She was involved with him, or at least, with an alternate version of him … but he certainly wasn't involved with her, and he'd gone way too far.

            But even as he regretted taking liberties with her that he had no right to, even as he felt certain that his behavior towards this reality's Hoshi Sato was not fitting for the role that he was supposed to be playing, he didn't see how he could have done anything else. It was clear that the other Trip had an active sexual relationship with this Hoshi, and refraining from making love to her just because he was afraid that he wouldn't measure up to his alternate self's style between the sheets … and it was not in him to brutalize her the way she was probably used to. He had done what he had to do to keep his secret, to the best of his ability, and if he couldn't go far enough to make her believe that he was who he was supposed to be, then there was nothing he could do about it anyway. 

            But then again, he had just made love to a stranger (no matter what she looked like and the similarities he saw between this Hoshi and the one he knew, she was still pretty much a stranger) while masquerading as someone that he was not. It was unchivalrous, immoral and probably illegal, and in any case not something that he could easily forgive himself despite the extenuating circumstances. Although he didn't see what else he could have done, he still couldn't excuse it. He had deceived her. He had _lied_ to her. And Trip didn't want to be a liar, especially not to a woman who loved him.

 If this had been something to be suffered through, something he hadn't wanted to do that he'd done for the sake of his cover, then he might have been able to forgive himself …

            But he had wanted to, hadn't he? He had seen his friend, his crewmate from his own reality, a woman that he protected and cared for as though she were part of him like a sister; he had seen her altered, still beautiful, but suffering, loving and giving and getting mostly pain for her troubles from the man she loved.

He had _wanted her, in ways that he had never thought he would want her, and he had taken her, in ways that she had never expected to be taken. He had done what he wanted to do. In the end, it probably had done more to damage his cover than to protect it. Hoshi already thought something was wrong, or at least, something was different – something was right in a way that it shouldn't be, at least._

            Hoshi shifted in her sleep, her drying hair soft against his bare shoulder. 

            He heard her voice in his memory: _Please. Don't let it stop._

            He had given her a gift this evening. A gift of tenderness from the image of the man she loved with all her heart, however undeserving that man was of her affection … tenderness that her real lover would never have given her, that much was certain. It was a gift that he had no right to give, but one that she more than deserved to receive.

            And if he looked at it in that light, watching the happy look on her face as she slept at his side, he found that despite all the moral issues he had with what he'd done, he wasn't really sorry.

            He did feel guilty for not being very sorry about it, though. 

            Hoshi opened her eyes and saw him watching her. She gave him a funny little smile. "Hi," she said. "How long was I out?"

            "You must have been pretty tired," Trip said. "An hour, maybe two. I lost track somewhere in there."

            "Weren't you tired?" Hoshi asked, looking up at him quizzically.

            He smiled down at her, a little sheepishly. "I was watching you," he said.

            A blush crept over her. "Oh," she said. "Well, I guess I should get up, huh? And get dressed … and get dinner …"

            "Don't even worry about it," Trip said. "You need your rest. I'll head down and grab us some food from the mess-hall. Cook won't like that I steal dishes, but tough on him."

            Hoshi laughed softly. "I don't think he'll complain too loudly," she said. Her eyes on his face were warm, but still puzzled, as he rolled out of bed and started climbing back into his uniform again.

            "You don't have to do that," Hoshi said.

            "Think I don't know that?" Trip said. "I want to. Anyway, I think Travis should be heading down there right about now and there's a couple things I want to talk to him about."

            Hoshi looked suddenly troubled and confused. "Travis?" she asked, as though he had completely derailed her train of thought.

            Trip glanced askance at her as he finished dressing himself. "Yeah," he said. "Travis. Mayweather, you know? Tall, dark, kinda good-looking, sits at the helm, not too talky?"

            Mild exasperation touched Hoshi's face. "I know who Travis is, Trip," she said dryly. "But …" She hesitated, as though she were measuring whether or not it was safe to continue her sentence.

            He looked at her, raising his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

            Hoshi sighed. "Never mind," she said.

            "Now you know I'm going to harass you until you tell me what you were going to say," Trip said.

            She looked worried, as though she wasn't sure how he meant this. "Um … I was just thinking that maybe Travis has enough on his mind," she said. "I wish you wouldn't … take anything out on him." She winced a little as she finished.

            "Don't worry," Trip said. "He's as safe as can be."

            Hoshi did not look convinced, but she said nothing more as Trip left their quarters.


	12. Planning

Chapter Twelve: Planning

A/N: Warning: implied slash. I've tried to keep this beneath radar for those of you who don't want to see it, though. 

            Trip sauntered into the mess-hall. It took some effort to affect this much nonchalance; but he felt that there were lengths he had to go to in order to play this part. He'd picked up some clues from Captain Archer earlier, that perhaps the man he was supposed to be stayed within the system but crept dangerously close to crossing lines when he thought he could get away with it.

            Trip hoped so. This system was cruel and corrupt, and although his other self seemed to fit in well enough, it made him feel a little better to think that the other Trip bucked at the rules a little bit, even if only in minor ways that barely mattered. 

            The mess was much the same as it was in his own reality, although not entirely; while meal-times were not standard on the _Enterprise__, people tended to coordinate their dining so as to socialize. There was a minimum of socializing going on in this room; and that that was happening was strictly within individual ranks. He saw no crewmen and ensigns chatting companionably over a cup of coffee, no lieutenants and commanders being pals over a plate of tuna salad sandwiches, and he suspected that if he wanted to spend some "fun" time with anyone of lesser rank aboard this ship, he would probably have to schedule it someplace private, without prying eyes. _

            Everyone seemed at least a little on edge, eating alone or sitting in small groups, speaking quietly amongst themselves and occasionally casting suspicious or worried looks towards other tables. 

            There was a data-padd sitting by itself next to the food service area. Trip picked it up to see who had left their work behind, but it turned out no one had.

            Meal requests, Trip thought, grinning a little as he looked at the padd. Crewman Cutler had apparently requested miso soup and Lieutenant Bexler was looking for some fried chicken. He wrote "pecan pie" on the padd just for the hell of it and affixed his name, thinking that meal requests was one thing these people had right and that he ought to pass the idea onto Cook when he got home …

            Assuming he _got_ home.

            The thought was sobering. Trip picked some plates with open-faced turkey sandwiches on them, wondering idly whether or not Hoshi actually _ate open-faced turkey sandwiches, and glanced around the mess-hall, looking for something to cover the plates in to keep them warm on the trip back to the quarters he shared with Hoshi._

            His glance fell on a table near the back of the room where Ensign Travis Mayweather dined alone. 

            Trip had almost forgotten, distracted by the open-faced sandwiches and the idea of requests for the kitchen. He headed over to Travis's table.

            Travis cringed a little as he saw Trip approaching, chewing slowly and deliberately as he tried not to look at the chief engineer's face. He also seemed determined not to speak first.

            Trip wondered what had been _done_ to this boy. 

            "Hey, Ensign Mayweather," he said, somehow sensing that using Travis's first name would be unwelcome with this version of his young friend. 

            Travis's dark eyes flicked briefly to meet Trip's, and then slid back to his dinner. "Commander," he acknowledged softly.

            Balancing his and Hoshi's plates in either hand, he sat down next to the ensign. Travis seemed mortified, his body language very stiff, uncomfortable to the point of downright fright. Trip watched him measuringly, letting the silence extend between them.

            "Is … something the matter?" Travis asked finally.

            "No," Trip replied, "nothing's wrong." He leaned closer, aware that there were prying eyes. "There's something I want to discuss with you in private, Travis," he said, despite his original instincts not to use the younger man's first name; it was important that Travis understand that Trip was making a request outside the usual, something unrelated to command structure, and that meant leaving off his rank.

            Travis looked at him briefly with an expression of only mild surprise. Trip was surprised to see how little reflected in those dark eyes; his own Travis was always a vibrant presence, his gaze full of earnestness or mischief but never so dull, so bland, so full of apathy. Trip found himself wondering again what had been done to him; it seemed that Travis was faring worse than most on the Enterprise … except for Phlox, and the image of the battered, miserable Doctor Phlox left Trip with a knot of fury in his stomach. Some things were going to be _changing around here, if he had his way._

            What was boomer-life like in this reality? Did it put Travis on some level lower than the Earth-born crew? Why did he seem so broken, or if not broken, so very close to breaking? Where was his spirit?

            "Whenever's convenient for you, Commander," Travis said, just as quietly. "My time's yours." He didn't sound very interested. It was clear that he would take what came, but he had no reason to think of anything hopeful coming from Trip's direction.

            "How about … midnight? Zero hundred?" Trip said.

            Travis shook his head slowly, a hint of misery showing in his face. "I've got an appointment with the captain," he said. There was something about the way Travis said the word "appointment" that made Trip's stomach turn. "It won't be over by midnight."

            "0100, then? My quarters?" Trip said.

            Travis looked at him and then nodded sadly. "Yeah," he said dully. "I'll be there."

            As Trip left the mess-hall, he heard some voices behind him: 

"Huh. Looks like Tucker's branching out."

            "Wonder what Sato will have to say about it?"

            "Wonder what _Archer_ will have to say about it?"

            And Trip decided that he didn't want to think about what had been done to Travis. Because he had a feeling he knew, or would know if he gave it enough consideration, and it wasn't something he wanted to dwell on.

            Some things were definitely going to change around here. And if he had to do it their way, so be it. A plan was crystallizing in his brain, and he thought that it might work, with a lot of luck. 

            "Hi, Hoshi," Trip said as he entered their quarters. "I stole us some food."

            She was sitting up in bed, dressed in a sleek-looking navy bathrobe, and she smiled tentatively as he entered. "Great," she said, "I'm hungry." She glanced sideways at him, curiously. "So … uh … how's Travis?"

            Trip shrugged. "Not so hot," he said. "I don't think he gets enough sleep."

            Hoshi closed her eyes and sighed. "I _know_ he doesn't get enough sleep," she said. 

            "Well, he'll be getting less tonight," Trip said, setting down their food. "Come on, let's eat."

            "Why?" Hoshi said guardedly as she sat down at the table.

            Trip glanced wryly at her. "So concerned for Ensign Mayweather," he said. "Should I be jealous?"

            Hoshi looked annoyed. "Trip," she said. "Why?"

            "He'll be over around 0100," he said, relenting. "We'll try not to wake you."

            She blanched. This was evidently unwelcome information for some reason. "Oh," she said, and looked away.

            Trip thought she somehow had gotten the wrong idea. "I just want to talk to him, Hoshi," he said.

            Hoshi did not look at him. "I see," she said.

            "Come on," he said, "I know you're hungry. Eat up."

            She started to eat, somewhat mechanically, although she finally did look back at him. "Thank you," she said.

            He shook his head at her. "Don't worry, Hoshi," he said. And then, because he had to say it, "You know I love you."  
            She caught her breath, and nodded. "I love you, Trip," she said, smiling.

            Trip set to devouring his open-faced sandwich and wondered privately how much he was lying.             


	13. LateNight Confessions

A/N: To anyone still reading this story: thanks so much for your patience! I know I was updating at a steady clip before and then petered off … and the only excuse that I really have to offer you is that my job is a tremendously energy-draining thing at which I have no Internet connection or word processor at my disposal. So once again, thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy this chapter and the ones to come!

Chapter Thirteen:  Late-Night Confessions

            Travis arrived at the entrance to Trip and Hoshi's shared quarters at exactly 00:59. It seemed that punctuality was considered a virtue around here; possibly keeping people waiting had served the young Mayweather badly in the past. 

            "Come on in," Trip said softly. "Keep your voice down."

            Hoshi slept on their bunk, the deep sleep of the utterly exhausted. Travis glanced her way and then his eyes, dark with suspicion, landed on Trip's face.  

            "Well, Commander," he said, his voice quiet and dull, "I'm here. What do you want of me?"

            Trip sat backwards on the chair that faced the desk so that his folded arms rested on the back of the seat. "I want to talk to you," he said. "I have some questions to ask you and some things to tell you that you may have some difficulty believing."

            Travis just looked at him, unmoving. 

            The young helmsman was making this difficult. But it wouldn't have been easy to explain even had Travis immediately opened his mind to a universe of new and strange possibilities, since Trip himself had no idea what had happened. He had ascertained that he wasn't dreaming. He thought that time travel was possible. Maybe he was going to go back in time, or had been going to go back in time, or had already gone back in time, and an event had been changed in history so that the progressive evolution of the universe had changed. They used to make a lot of films about that kind of thing, in the olden days. Trip was an old film buff, though, and he couldn't think why he could remember the way things used to be and nobody else could _but_ he couldn't remember what had happened, or would happen; so he'd been operating under the assumption that somehow he'd been transported into a parallel universe, one where people were themselves but not themselves, where values were inverted or at least, placed beneath ambition … where might was right and mercy was only weakness.

            But how could the transporter do such a thing? He'd come to the conclusion that it had something to do with the ionic energy of the storm surrounding the planet he'd beamed up from, leaving Malcolm behind, if only because the full effect of such a storm was not catalogued and because that was when the world had turned inside-out and upside-down. But for all he knew, this was some grand delusion, some dream that would go away when he triggered its ending somehow; he'd discover that the ruby shoes he wore had the power to take him back to Kansas after all and that what he'd been looking for had never been further than his own back yard in the first place.

             Trip sighed.

            "I know it's hard, Travis," he said, his voice soft but full of passionate earnestness. "I know I haven't been exactly nice to you in the past …" 

            The expression of sheer incredulity that Travis was fighting told Trip that he was probably barking up the wrong tree here, but he had to keep going; the most oppressed people, the ones that fit in the least here, were going to be his easiest and most likely allies against the established order and the only way he was going to get home. 

            "And I know you've been through a lot, since being assigned to the _Enterprise," Trip said. He fell silent, looking at the young man standing before him, waiting for some sign that Travis was willing to at least hear him out … that there was some hope buried there, some of the optimistic energy that so characterized his friend _

            Travis blinked at him. "Assigned," he repeated, his voice very low. "I suppose that's what the euphemism must be."

            Trip hesitated. But even as he did so, he had to admit to himself that he was partly relieved; the bitterness that roughened the younger man's voice was a sign that his spirit had not yet given up. It might have been hiding, in remission even, but it was still there, even if only a shadow of its former glory. "I guess I don't know what really happened," he said. "How did you get assigned to the _Enterprise?"  
            Travis looked at him skeptically, but a shadow of doubt was in his eyes. "As if you really don't know," he said._

            "No, I don't," Trip said. 

            "He's really kept it that much of a secret?" Travis said. "Even to you?"

            Trip guessed that the "he" in this case meant Captain Archer and nodded. 

            "I thought … we all thought he told you things," Travis said. "That you were the closest thing he had to a … to a friend."

            Trip blinked, thinking of the contempt, cold sarcasm and barely-restrained anger with which this _Enterprise__'s Captain Archer had interacted with him. "Hardly," he said. "He hasn't told me hardly anything about you."_

            Travis rubbed his hands together nervously, glancing in Hoshi's direction where she still slept on the bed that Trip normally would have shared. Then he swallowed and said in a terribly small voice, "Well, I guess it can't hurt to tell you. I mean, I thought you knew anyway. I thought … I thought he'd brag about it. He just seems the type."

            Trip wondered with a sinking heart what Travis thought Jonathan Archer would be bragging about … and although he knew that he would probably find out shortly, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He wasn't sure how much of what was true of these people that would hold true in his own universe; he didn't know how much of himself was in the other Trip, how much of Captain Archer was in this Captain Archer. But he said: "I know you won't believe me when I say this, Travis, but I want to help you … and I think I need to know, if I'm going to."

            Travis gave him a measuring look. There was fear in his face, mostly, but a tiny spark of something else. Trip sensed that the boy – for he seemed suddenly like a child, being offered truce by an ordinarily cruel older brother – wanted to believe him, in the depths of his soul, but was terrified of what would happen if he decided to put his trust in such an unlikely place should Trip play him false.

            Trip wished he knew how to reassure him. 

            "Help me," Travis said. "You want to _help_ me?"

            "You," Trip said, nodding. "You, and Hoshi, and Phlox, and everyone that I can."

            Travis stared at him, warring with himself. "All right," he said finally. "I'll tell you the story. But I don't think it will do either of us much good."

            This was at best a stay of decision. But it gave Trip hope that there was a chance that he still might be able to reach this incarnation of Travis Mayweather, and he nodded. "I'm listening," he said.

            "It was before the _Enterprise_ was ready to go," Travis said. "I don't know how he found out about me. I think it was partially my father's fault. He thought it would do some good, I guess, find me a career where my talents as a helmsman could really take me far." He chuckled bitterly. "Well, took me far all right. I'll probably never see him again, him or any of them. I was approached by a representative of the Imperial Fleet and told that I was expected to join the crew of the NX-01 before she left Earth when the _Horizon was at a supply station on the outer edges of the solar system." He shook his head. "Well, Commander, I don't much care for being __career-__oriented," he said. But he didn't go on to say that he didn't much care for the Imperial Fleet. Trip didn't blame him; Travis still didn't know on what footing he was with Trip, and anyway it probably wasn't safe to say things like that out loud, even in private. _

            "So you refused?" Trip asked.

            Travis nodded simply. "I told him that I was happy where I was, thanks just the same. The representative suggested that a meeting with my prospective commanding officer would change my mind. I said I didn't think so, and he called some guys in and they roughed me up a little and put me in irons. So they took me to see Archer."

            "So what happened?" Trip asked, resting his chin on his folded arms and tilting the chair towards Travis a little.

            Travis sat down backwards on the chair to the other desk – Hoshi's desk – and shook his head. "I don't really remember much, to tell you the truth. I think they knocked me out. Probably gave me a concussion, I've had plenty of those over the years," he said.

            Some things don't change, Trip thought wryly, and nodded. "So you were basically pressed into service," he said.

            "Basically," Travis answered, and snorted, a little louder than he meant to. Hoshi shifted in her sleep and he glanced nervously in her direction, not continuing for almost a minute. Then he said, "basically, Captain Archer had me taken forcefully from my ship and has my family _and the __Horizon hostage against my service. If I don't do expressly what I'm told, he'll take them out. One by one."_

            Trip could think of nothing to say for a long moment. Finally, he said, "I'm sorry, Travis."

            Travis snorted derisively and shook his head. "Sorry?" he scoffed. "What do you know about 'sorry'? What do _any_ of you Fleet types know about 'sorry'?"

            "It doesn't have to be this way," Trip said. 

            Travis gave him a jaded look. "Sorry, Commander," he said, his words an embittered sneer. "But as long as men like Captain Archer and …" He swallowed, shuddered, but still managed to continue: "Admiral Forrest … head the Imperial Fleet, it _does have to be this way."_

            "But not here. Not on the _Enterprise_," Trip said. "We can fix it." He leaned towards the man who looked so like his young friend, gazing earnestly into his young face. He forgot to regulate his volume, and heard Hoshi sigh softly in her sleep as she shifted on the bunk.

            Travis looked shaken. "Is that what you called me in here for?" he asked, his voice very soft and full of broken hopes. "I have to admit I thought better of you, Commander Tucker."

            Trip was confused. "Huh?"

            "You had me going for a little while there," Travis said, "listening to my story. Pretending to feel sorry for me, even. What was next, Commander? Plans to assassinate Captain Archer and take the command of the _Enterprise yourself, with me as your helmsman and second in command?"_

            Trip stared at him. "You think I'm trying to set you up?"

            "Give me a break," Travis said, looking away. "I'm not completely stupid, you know. I know how the game is played. You can take your traps and your empty offers …" He did not finish the sentence, perhaps out of concern for his personal safety or perhaps not. Instead, he stood, clearly awaiting permission from his superior officer to leave.

            Trip did not give it. "I'm not playing games with you, Travis," he said. "And I've got a story of my own to tell, if you'll listen. You probably won't believe it. I wouldn't, if I were you. But I can tell that the only chance I have of getting you to trust me is to tell you the truth."

            Travis sighed and looked towards the ceiling. He looked tired and miserable. But he did sit down again, and spread his hands before him in a symbol of resignation. "I'm listening," he said.


	14. Grain of Hope

A/N: Hi again, folks! I'll go away and stop leaving these little notes eventually. This is just another apology for the long pause between updates … in this case, I saw that the story had fallen off the front page and was galvanized into action. ;-) I realize that these apologies aren't worth much to those of you who are following the story, especially since the chapters are so egregiously short, but thank you once again for reading and I promise things are going to heat up rather quickly after this chapter. And as for the necessary _excuse_ as to why this hasn't been updated, the only one I have is that I'm trying to write about forty fics at once and thus no work is getting done on _any_ of them. I really need to learn to prioritize.

Chapter Fourteen: Grain of Hope

            " … so that's really all there is to it," Trip said. "Or at least, all I know. But like I said, this isn't my _Enterprise … and I think I can back to where I belong, if you'll help me."_

            Travis sat in silence for awhile. He had gone from skeptical to astonished to half-convinced of Trip having completely left his senses in a matter of minutes; but at least he was listening. He was considering. It sounded pretty damn outlandish, Trip knew that well enough; but he'd pegged Ensign Mayweather as an open-minded sort from the first moment he'd met the young man, and now he could only hope his counterpart had held onto that in all the strangeness and pain that made up his life.

            Finally, in a way that didn't indicate whether he believed Trip or not, Travis said, "What do you want me to do?"

            The truth was, Trip wasn't sure. It really depended on how many people he managed to win over to his cause. He never had been very good at _planning; he was a man that lived in the moment and organized things with his heart rather than with his brain. It made moments of decision like these rather awkward upon occasion. But he was getting better at it; his time aboard the __Enterprise, and all the occasions in which he'd been left in command, had begun to season him. _

            "I need you at the helm," Trip said.

            Travis raised his eyebrows. "You want me to go against Captain Archer's orders?"

            "Not exactly," Trip said. "I'll let you know when the time comes. You won't be disobeying any orders from the captain, not if everything goes right. But you won't exactly be following orders from him, either." 

            "Can you be more specific?" Travis asked with a hint of wryness.

            Trip had to chuckle at that. He was asking a lot; a nebulous commitment to something that was absolutely _made_ of uncertainty, when Travis's situation was precarious enough already … but what else could he do? He needed Travis at the helm and he needed as many people on his side for what was coming – whatever it turned out to be – as he could get. On the surface, all it looked like he needed to do was get back to the planet and the ion storms there, commandeer the transporter for long enough to beam down at the right instant, and hope that the universe would right itself accordingly … but it wasn't in his nature to just _leave_ things as they were, seeing his friends suffering they way they were. He knew he couldn't change _everything_, but he felt as though he had a responsibility to change everything he could … and there was one thing he thought he could do, given the time and allies to do it with. "I don't think I can," he said. "Not until I know more. But can I count on you?"

            Travis sighed. "I'm probably crazy," he said. "Or maybe we both are. But I'll do what I can to help you, Commander." He stood up and headed for the door.

            "Thank you," Trip said quietly. He knew that Travis didn't need any more uncertainty in his life than he already had. He tried to convey, in those two little words, how much he appreciated the commitment that Travis was giving him – a commitment to something that he didn't understand, a plan that, really, didn't even exist yet. On the strength of what sounded like little more than a bad dream, except that Trip was definitely awake.

            Travis smiled briefly as he stood before the still-closed door. "Out of my mind," he said wryly. But then the familiar earnestness returned to his voice as he added: "But … you did listen to me, sir. And you didn't laugh. I think that's worth _something_, at least."

            Then he was gone.

            Trip was left with a good deal to think about. 


	15. The Slave

_Thanks to my beta reader, Pelbarigan__, for she is of the nifty! _

Chapter Fifteen: The Slave

            Trip got out of bed two hours before his shift was supposed to start. Hoshi was still asleep; that suited him fine. She needed her rest.

And although he and Travis had kept fairly quiet last night, he didn't know what she thought of their late meeting … and he didn't want to hurt her feelings by being evasive. It was better to talk to her later. He still wasn't sure if he wanted to tell her everything. On the one hand, she would be a useful addition to the little team he was assembling, and telling her would definitely be the _right thing to do … but at the same time, envisioning the conversation that would take place, after what they had shared – what he had stolen from her – did not leave him feeling particularly anxious for it to occur. So he put it off, buried it in the back of his mind, and decided he'd deal with it when it became necessary to do so._

            In the meantime, he had to let Phlox know what was coming.

            Whether or not this was the most intelligent thing to do he didn't know; but he wanted Phlox to be prepared for whatever happened. And more than that, he couldn't bear the thought of the cheery, cheeky Denobulan, with his engaging curiosity about everything, being held down and beaten and treated like garbage by a pernicious system … he had to give him what hope he had to offer.

            Sickbay was deserted when he got there except for Dr. Phlox's thinner, meeker doppelganger and a security guard whose apparent duty was to keep an eye on him; Dr. Singerra was nowhere to be seen.

            "Where's the Doc?" Trip asked. 

            The guard grinned nastily. "What's the matter, Commander? Got morning sickness?"

            Trip felt his ears burning at the cruel and unexpected jibe; he'd thought his rank carried some weight around here. He stared at the man, trying to be as cold and intimidating as he could, and held absolutely still. "Do you find something _funny, Mister?"_

            The guard stared back. "No."

Trip raised an eyebrow with Vulcan-like calm. "No?"

"No, _sir," the guard replied, after he realized what Trip was waiting for._

"I've really got to talk to Malcolm some more about his men's discipline. I had no idea he'd grown so lax with his men," Trip drawled, with a nasty edge to his voice that he found himself enjoying more than he felt like he ought to.

            The guard blanched. "That won't be necessary, sir," he said. "You were never bothered by a little fun before, sir."

            "Well, maybe I am now," Trip returned, wondering what in the world his other self had been up to. That he had accepted "a little fun" from the security men told him that maybe he'd been trying to build up support in the ranks. Malcolm had seemed to expect laxity from him as well. That actually explained a few things … if his alternate self, the one who belonged here, had been deliberately insolent to regulations and played up an undisciplined, more "fun" way of life, maybe he'd been trying to earn the support of the underlings …

            Trip felt his mind spinning and decided that there was no point trying to figure out what his other self had been up to. He didn't need to know what his opposite number was like. He just needed to get out of here.

            And to rectify a few problems. 

"I think I need an examination," Trip said, glancing at Dr. Phlox. "Are you capable of that?"

            The Denobulan nodded blandly, his expression registering no emotion whatsoever … except for the tiniest flicker of something quite familiar in his eyes. _Curiosity._ It looked like Phlox really was in there somewhere … Trip just hoped that he could bring him out.

            "But I don't think I need this guy in the room while I'm taking my trousers down, if you know what I mean," he said, shooting a glance at the guard.

            "Sir, Lieutenant Reed and Dr. Singerra –" the guard started to say.

            Trip turned to stare at him. "You weren't so concerned about what Lieutenant Reed might have thought when I came in here this morning, were you?" he said. 

            "But Commander –" 

            "Do I look like I want to hear excuses from you? Man deserves some privacy when he's undressed, crewman!" Trip snapped. "I can take care of myself. And if anything goes wrong, I'll take responsibility for it. Got it? Your ass is covered."

            "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," the guard said, and let a hissed breath out through his teeth that said, quite plainly, that he was not particularly pleased with these orders … and then vacated the room.

            "Well, Commander?" Phlox's voice was soft, expectant. His eyes were steady on Trip's face, but he seemed as though he were on the verge of flinching away from him. "You've maneuvered to get me alone."

            "I've got a story to tell you, Doctor. And I want you to tell me if I'm crazy," Trip said.

            "Very well," Phlox said carefully. 

            So Trip told him; he told him that there was another place, another _reality, where everything was much the same as in this one, except for certain details that made it very, very different. He told him that he thought his consciousness had been exchanged with the Commander Charles Tucker III that worked as the Chief Engineer for this _Enterprise_ back at the planet whose atmosphere had been severely distorted by ionic storms. He told him that on his __Enterprise, there was no Dr. Singerra and that Phlox was the Chief Medical Officer of the ship, and that he had joined the crew as part of the Medical Species Exchange and that had fast become a much-loved and trusted member of the crew._

            "And I can't take you back with me," Trip said.

            "Surely not," Phlox said mildly, his expression surprisingly resigned. "There is another _me_ there, where he belongs, enjoying the benefits of his free and peaceful existence." 

            Trip couldn't tell if that meant Phlox was accepting his story or was just attempting to placate him. "You believe me?" he said.

            "I am willing to accept the possibility of an alternate universe where events are much like those that exist here," Phlox said. His voice sounded tired, but there was a hint of the old cheeriness there that it seemed came out when he was presented with such a problem.  "Such a concept is well within the realms of quantum physics under its current frame of study. Of course, physics is not my field, and quantum physics is quite bewildering under any circumstances."

            "But you don't believe that I'm _from_ another reality?" Trip said.

            "Your behavior certainly suggests that you _believe_ you are from another reality," Phlox said carefully. 

            "You think I'm delusional," Trip said.

            "As a doctor, I can't rule that out," Phlox said, with just a hint of amusement in his voice. He made a kind of facial shrug. 

            Trip sighed. "So I'm crazy," he said.

            "Not necessarily," the Denobulan said. "However, if you are from an alternate reality, I can't fathom your purpose in telling me about it."

            Trip stared at him, momentarily flabbergasted. "I want to change things here," he said. "You shouldn't be enslaved."

            Phlox looked amused, in a disturbingly cynical way. "Well, of course I shouldn't be," he said. "Slavery is a barbaric concept. I'm glad you've come around. But since I don't believe you have the power to free me, your purpose in coming here and telling me that you'd much prefer it if I were freed is …?" 

            "To tell you that you _will_ be freed," Trip said. "Because I'm going to fix it. I'm going to get rid of Dr. Singerra and … make it _better_ here …"

            But Phlox was shaking his head. "A noble enterprise," he said. "But ultimately futile."

            "Why do you say that?" Trip asked. He felt as though the wind had been taken out of his sails.

            Phlox smiled sadly. "Because unless I'm very much mistaken, Crewman Burke summoned his commanding officer when you summarily dismissed him from this room, and as we speak Lieutenant Reed is standing right outside this Sickbay with an audio recording device …" He spread his hands wide. "I'm sorry to have to do this to you, Commander. But I'm afraid I was given no choice."

            Trip heard the sickening sound of the doors sliding open and Malcolm's brisk, military step as he strode into Sickbay, which suddenly seemed a much darker, drearier place.

            "A miscalculation on your part, Commander," Lieutenant Reed said mildly, tapping the recorder in his hand. His voice was rough with suppressed emotion. Most of it, Trip suspected, was glee. "Well done, slave."

            "Pleasure to be of service," Phlox mumbled. He glanced back at Trip, unhappily. But there was nothing he could do.

            "Mister Tucker," Malcolm snapped. "Come with me. I believe you have some _questions to answer in the armoury."_

            Trip went with him, unresisting. What point was there in trying to escape? There was nowhere to run to.


	16. Temptation

Chapter Sixteen: Temptation

            They reached the armoury and Malcolm took him inside. He hadn't said a word since they left Sickbay, although Crewman Burke and several other security men were trailing behind them to make sure the erstwhile chief engineer didn't try anything funny. When they were inside, they made sure Trip's hands were securely bound and they sat him down on the floor.

            "Not taking me to the brig?" Trip said.

            Malcolm ignored this and turned to his men. "I believe," he said, "that I will get information out of him easier if you vacate the premises. Now."

            They left instantly, wordlessly. 

            "They're not carrying audio recorders on them, are they, Lieutenant?" Trip drawled. 

            "Quiet," Malcolm said. He lifted the recording device and played it back. He stood there, motionless and silent, and they listened to the entire conversation. The British man's face displayed no trace of emotion, no sign even that he understood what he was hearing. When the recording was over, he snapped the device off and tossed it aside. 

            "You will be thrown in the brig," he said. "But first it is my duty as armoury officer to extract the names of your fellow conspirators. You are clearly planning a coup to eliminate order aboard this vessel."

            "I don't have any fellow conspirators," Trip said. "I'm working on my own."

            "How foolish do you think I am?" demanded Lieutenant Reed. 

            "Pretty damn foolish."

            Malcolm Reed went dead silent and stared at Trip, who sat on the floor with his hands bound and stared defiantly back up at him.

            "Really," he said, his voice dangerously soft.

            "Really," Trip said. He smiled. "Don't you see, Lieutenant? The opportunity you're passing up?"

            "Opportunity!" Malcolm snorted, his voice and face full of contempt. "Absurd."

            "Opportunity of a lifetime," Trip said. He thought that his life might just depend on this.

            "I believe, Commander Tucker," Malcolm said slowly, delightedly, as if it were the strangest ploy he had ever come across in all his years of interrogating recalcitrant prisoners, "that you are _actually_ trying to _subvert_ me."

            Trip rolled his eyes. "Oh, Lieutenant Reed. Simple, _obedient Lieutenant Reed,"  he said. "Is that how you want to spend the rest of your life?"_

            "Simple Lieutenant Reed," Malcolm said thoughtfully. "Obedient Lieutenant Reed. Hmm, yes. _Alive Lieutenant Reed. I like that last part."_

            Trip gave him a pitying look. "Lieutenant," he said. "You want to stay _Lieutenant for the rest of your life?"_

            Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes," he said. "You're going to take over the ship and you'll grant me a post as your first officer if I'll help you? Is that what you're going to say? Commander Reed?"

            "No," Trip said.

            "Do enlighten me, Mr. Tucker, or the suspense will be the death of me," Malcolm said, sarcasm slicing into the words. 

            "Captain," said Trip.

            Malcolm stared at him. The silence lengthened. Then, finally, he laughed bitterly and turned away, his hands clasped behind his back as he paced. "Planning to assassinate Admiral Forrest, are we? Admiral Tucker? Taking over Fleet Command and forcing us all to abolish slavery and uphold freedom on the Imperial flagship?" His voice was biting, angry. He didn't want to be having this conversation. And he would end it soon, because Trip probably had already said enough to warrant his own execution.

            "No," Trip said. And because honesty was all that he had left, he said, "Damn it, Malcolm. I just want to go home."

            "Home?" Lieutenant Reed glanced at his recording device. "Ah, the famous _reality_ from which you sprang?" He rolled his eyes. "You've been gathering support among the men – _my_ men, if you please! – for the past two months, by my reckoning … fomenting rebellion, Commander, for much longer than your story would suggest. If you thought I was really _mad_ enough to buy such a tale. Why would you _possibly_ want to offer me the captaincy?"

            "Because you'd be good at it and I wouldn't," Trip said earnestly. "I don't want the damn job! Leave me to my engines, I'm no _captain_, just get me back to that planet, beam me down, beam me back up again!"

            "And that's all you want …?" Malcolm was staring at him, the beginnings of confusion in his eyes. "Just … down there, and up again, and then I'm Captain? Captain of the _Enterprise?"_

            "No," Trip said, "you're Captain before. As soon as we get rid of Captain Archer."

            Malcolm was silent for a very long moment. Then he smiled and drew his phase pistol. "Ah," he said. It seemed as though a door had closed in his face. "As soon as _we_ get rid of Captain Archer." He fired the pistol at the recording device, rendering it completely useless. "I see."

            That, plainly, was what Malcolm had been waiting for.

            "As soon as we get rid of Captain Archer," said Lieutenant Reed again. He shook his head and laughed hollowly. "Come along, Mr. Tucker. You're going to the brig now."

            "Why bother with the brig?" Trip asked tiredly. "Why don't you just shoot me?"

            Malcolm snorted. "Please. We are not _barbarians_," he said. The irony lay heavily in his voice.


	17. In the Brig

Chapter Seventeen: In the Brig

            Trip sat on the hard single bunk that represented his cell's only furniture and wondered what he was going to do. He felt hope of getting back where he belonged slipping away; there seemed to be little he could do, here in this jail cell. Thus far he'd had no communication with anyone since Malcolm had put him in here. It seemed as though an eternity had passed, even though he knew that it had really only been a couple of hours. He had exhausted all of the possibilities he could think of where constructive activity that could be undertaken while incarcerated was concerned; now there was nothing left but to sit here feeling sorry for himself. It made him feel more helpless than he could recall feeling in his entire life.

            He had been so close. He was sure of it. He was _sure_ that Malcolm had been on the verge of succumbing to his ambition. He shouldn't have mentioned a possible assassination of Captain Archer, that was all … he should have found some way to hedge around the point without giving away too much information. But he'd felt possibility so close at hand and he'd snatched at it with all the finesse he'd been able to rustle up at the spur of the moment … clearly, not enough.

            He buried his face in his hands and sighed, staring through the gaps in his fingers at the hard, metallic floor of his cell.

            "I'm very disappointed in you, Trip." 

            He jerked alert. The Captain Archer that was so like his own – and yet so very unlike – stood there with his hands folded neatly over his chest, brow furrowing gently as he gazed through the bars at his chief engineer. 

            "Very disappointed," Archer repeated thoughtfully, as though he were rolling the words over in his mouth. "You showed such promise. I've been watching your career with interest, you know. Slowly gathering the support of the crewmen, turning them against Lieutenant Reed … pretty clever stuff, Commander. Why did you throw it all away?"

            "Throw it away, sir?" Trip said. 

            "You've been so careless the last couple of days. You got cocky, didn't you?" said Captain Archer. "Calling Mayweather to your quarters in the middle of the night? I could tell something was up. You got careless. You had to be making your move. To be frank I expected better of you. I expected a challenge." He shook his head sadly. 

            "Sorry to disappoint you, Captain," Trip said. He smiled grimly. "I'll try to do better next time."

            The captain gave a short bark of laughter. Then he said, "Funny, Trip. But you know damn well there's not going to be a next time. You'll be court-martialed, of course, as soon as we get back to Earth."

            "Court-martialed," Trip repeated, snorting. 

            "Yes, these formalities are so tedious, aren't they?" Captain Archer drawled, sounding amused. "In any event, until we return to Imperial space you will be kept here, in the brig. The Fleet will decide what to do with you in its own good time."

            "What are you going to do about the engines while I'm stuck here?" Trip asked.

            Archer stared at him for a very long moment as though trying to figure out whether or not he was joking. Then he threw back his head and laughed, heartily. "My, my! Concerned for the well-being of your precious warp five engine, Trip?"

            "Your father's precious warp five engine," Trip corrected, before he could stop himself.

            Somehow, the captain's face hardened. He looked away. "Yes," he said, hissing the sibilant at the end of the word. "My father's precious warp five engine."

            Bitterness? Huh?

            "Bexler ought to be able to take care of things until you find a more permanent replacement," Trip said. "She's good. Real good. And Rostov is showing promise, too."

            Archer eyed him strangely. "Why," he said, "are you telling me this?"

            Trip shrugged. "You need a good engineer."

            "If you're so concerned with the state of engineering in your absence, why were you trying to take command of my ship?" the captain demanded.

            "I wasn't," Trip said. "Didn't Malcolm tell you? I was just going to get rid of _you. I don't want the captain's chair. That's not where I belong."_

            Archer's brow furrowed. Trip's apparent lack of ambition seemed to be too much for him. "What kind of ruse is this?"

            "No ruse. I'm just a simple country boy … what would I do with a starship?" Trip said easily.

            "That's ridiculous," Archer sneered. He turned and headed for the corridor, but paused in the threshold to say, "I don't know what you're trying to pull, Commander. But it's not going to work. You're never getting out of that brig alive."

            Trip shrugged his shoulders again. "Yes, sir," he said.

            The captain left.

            Trip settled back on his bunk, pillowing his hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling. He wasn't sure if he'd accomplished anything, besides confusing the hell out of his friend's doppelganger. But there wasn't much that he could do, locked up in the brig.

            He glanced the way Archer had retreated. He _had_ to get out of here.


	18. Jailbreak

Chapter Eighteen: Jailbreak

            Hesitant steps in the corridor outside the brig told him that he had another visitor. He sat up on his bunk and glanced out; it was amazing how much he missed human company, even when the company was as lousy as it tended to be on this ship.

            It was Hoshi.

            She looked at him with curiosity and concern mingled on her face as she chewed on her lower lip. She didn't say anything; she just stood there, watching him.

            "Hoshi?" he said.

            She didn't answer at first. Then, finally, she said in a low voice, "Travis told me everything."

            He felt his stomach lurch unpleasantly. "He … told you?" he repeated. "About …"

            Hoshi smiled, ever-so-slightly, although the expression seemed tired and did not quite reach her eyes. "That's right," she said. "You're an alternate version of you from another universe where the Empire was never formed and the _Enterprise is on a mission of peaceful exploration."_

            Trip glanced nervously around the room. "Aren't there recording devices in here?"

            She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Trip. I _am_ the head of the communications department." She tapped the universal translator that was hooked to her belt. "I've readjusted this to generate static on the channel. Mr. Reed won't hear a damn thing. Besides … hasn't he heard about your situation already?"

            "I just didn't want to implicate you in … all this," Trip said.

            Hoshi smiled wryly. "Oh … Trip. I'm the woman of a traitor. I'm already implicated … although Lieutenant Reed is willing to believe my innocence on Ensign Mayweather's insistence and … something in exchange." She grimaced.

            Trip didn't have to think too hard about what the armory officer would want in exchange from her, and winced in spite of himself. "I'm sorry, Hoshi."

            "Me, too." She glanced over her shoulder, as though to make sure the doors to the brig were still closed, and then she started to unzip her uniform.

            "Uh ... Hoshi?" Trip began, confused.   

            She held up a hand. "Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong," she said. "I don't disrobe before total strangers."

            He winced. "I … I'm sorry, Hoshi, I didn't think of … I mean, I guess I did think of it, but it didn't seem … I couldn't …"

            Hoshi raised her eyebrows at him as she pulled tools from various places hidden within her uniform jumpsuit. "Articulate as ever, Commander Tucker," she said. "I'm sure I have a course in remedial English somewhere that might do you some good …" She started putting together a device that looked quite complicated with a sequence of small attachments.

            " … what are you doing?" Trip said, distracted from his fumbling attempts at an apology for what both of them knew there could be no real apologizing for.

            Hoshi sighed as she snapped the last piece of her gadget together. "I'm getting you out of here," she said.

            Trip stared. "What? Why?"

            She smiled. "Think of it … as a return favor," she said, holding up the tool and examining it to make certain that she'd constructed it properly from the bits and pieces she'd had hidden away in her uniform. "Because of you, I know that there's another me somewhere, another me whose life isn't fraught with the dangers of Imperial politics. Another me whose love life isn't quite so horrific. Another me, with everything to hope for. And I owe it to you both to send you back to her." She began fiddling with the locking mechanism on the cell door.

            "Er," Trip said. "Hoshi and I …" Then he stopped. Why should he tell her that? But then again, wasn't _not_ telling her continuing from his dishonesty from before? Didn't she deserve the truth, even if it wasn't exactly what she thought it was going to be? "We're just friends," he said.

            She paused briefly, a very strange expression on her face. "Oh, really?" she said.

            He felt himself blushing, and wondered why. "Yeah."

            "Are you sure?" Hoshi asked.

            He had no answer for that, and she didn't seem to expect one; the conversation was forestalled by the audible click of the locking mechanism disengaging. "There!" she said, triumphantly. She opened the door. "Come on. We've got to get you out of here."

            He stepped out of the cell and it felt as though a great weight had lifted from his shoulders. "Hoshi … I can't thank you enough," he said.

            She grinned a little mischievously. "No, I really don't think you can," she said. She took him by the hand and led him, not toward the corridor, but toward the ventilation shaft's opening in the corner. 

            "Boost me up," she said. "We've got to get you to the shuttle-bay."

            Soon she was seated on his shoulders with her legs wrapped around him and her hands neatly unfastening the clasp on the ventilation shaft's door. 

            "Hosh … aren't you claustrophobic?" Trip asked, trying not to think about her legs clamped tightly over his chest and his hands gripping her thighs. 

            "I'll live," she said shortly. Then, a moment later, she announced, "Got it!"

            But then there was the sickening sound of the brig doors opening. Hoshi froze on top of him. "Oh, no … I thought I had him _occupied_," she hissed under her breath.

            "Well, well, well." Malcolm's British accent seemed to get thicker, if that was even possible, when his voice was suffused with unholy glee. "What have we here?"


	19. Enemy or Ally?

Chapter Nineteen: Enemy or Ally?

Malcolm Reed circled them like a vulture, a delighted smirk suffusing his features. His phase pistol was out, balanced easily in his hand; the aim shifted between Trip's chest and Hoshi's as he moved. 

"What did you think you were going to accomplish, Ensign Sato?" he demanded, and despite the gleam of amused glee that danced in his grey eyes, his voice was harsh and irritated.

Hoshi flinched – just a little bit – but stood her ground and stared at him with defiance in her face. "I don't know, sir," she snapped.

"You don't know, sir," Malcolm repeated, sneering. He shook his head. "I had expected _better_ of you. And Trip … did you have a plan, or were you just going to hide in the ducts until you came up with something better? Drop down on Captain Archer in his sleep and slit his throat, perhaps?" He rolled his eyes. "Really. And to think I actually thought you might have an _idea_ of what you were doing … sowing dissension in the ranks of my men for so very long, trying to get me to get my guard down, playing your little matchmaking games with me and T'pol … did you think I didn't see through it?"

Trip couldn't help but be a little surprised. His other self seemed to have had _some_ kind of a plan, a more long-term one than his own, in the works. And the others apparently all knew about it … were they just going to wait and see how things played out? Did the other Trip Tucker know that they were lying in wait, expecting him to make his move? Maybe he was a step ahead of them, too … but whatever it was, he had to do what he could with the situation he found himself in, and that meant not wasting time trying to sleuth out his doppelganger's motives in this universe. He had to concentrate his mental energy on getting _out of here._

But he couldn't help being curious. "See through it to what, Malcolm? What do you think I'm trying to do?"

Malcolm hesitated, just for a split-second. Then he said, "It doesn't matter. You've thrown it away. _She's_ thrown it away."

"Have we?" Trip said. 

"It's my _duty_," the lieutenant growled. "My _duty_ is to take you to the captain, to inform him of the breach of security. It may mean my head but it's my _duty_ to do it."

Hoshi laughed hollowly. "Oh, Lieutenant. Your precious honor? If you do that, Lieutenant Reed, if you do what you say is your _duty_, you'll be throwing it away. All of it, everything that Trip's worked for here."

Trip glanced sidelong at her. Could she know? Could she possibly have _any_ idea what he'd tried to do, to get Malcolm in on his plan? Or was she just talking, giving him time to come up with something, some way to get them out of this?

Malcolm scoffed. "That sounds familiar, Ensign," he said, leering at her lasciviously. 

Trip found himself feeling suddenly possessive as the mirror image of his friend eyed her, and he gripped Hoshi's hand firmly in his own. 

What was _that_ about?

"Maybe it should," Hoshi said. "Maybe he's told you everything he's told me."

Well, considering that he hadn't told her _anything_ … 

Malcolm shook his head, a glint of bitterness in his eyes. "Ah, yes," he said. "Your _lover_ here is only trying to get home … home to his own universe. And he'll kill the Captain, will he, and leave _me_ in command of the _Enterprise_." 

Hoshi glanced sharply at him, just for an instant. She didn't seem too pleased with _that_ aspect. But she clearly understood the necessity, because she made no comment and said, instead, "is that so hard to believe, Lieutenant?"

He gave a short bark of laughter. "Oh, _please_," he said. "Why should he do such a thing for me? He has no reason to. He has no motive. He just wants to implicate me in Captain Archer's murder should something go wrong."

"Nothing will go wrong," Hoshi said. "What could? You _are_ the security on this ship, Mr. Reed."

Malcolm looked at her. But before he said anything more, Trip interrupted.

"And it's not something for nothing, Malcolm," Trip said.

"Because I'd get you home?" the armoury officer said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"You'd free the slaves. All the slaves," Trip said. "It's horrific, a society so barbaric as to bring such an atrocious practice with it into the stars."

Malcolm stared at him. "I'd free the slaves," he said, slowly. "And you would be content to remain, as you are, Commander Tucker, Chief Engineer? In exchange for their freedom?"

Trip shook his head. "I can't say what the Trip Tucker you know would do," he said. "He'll be back here, I think, when I go home. But you can deal with him in your own time."

Malcolm suddenly grinned fiendishly. "I wouldn't be indebted to you," he said. "I would have fulfilled my responsibilities, completed the deal. You would be back … in your own universe …" The possibilities clearly appealed to him.

"But the slaves will have been freed," Trip insisted.

Hoshi looked at him. "Trip …"

"Malcolm!" Trip said. "I want your word on that."

Malcolm looked at him. "My word? You'd take my _word?" He laughed bitterly. "What does any man's _word_ mean, in these times?"_

"Your oath as a Reed," Trip insisted. "And you have the _Enterprise, she's yours."_

Malcolm hesitated for just a second more. It was clear that he believed Trip – or at least, desperately wanted to believe him – and yet he had spent his whole life trying not to trust anyone, trying to stay ahead in a command structure that meant more cunning that responsibility, more politics than honor. 

"Very well," he said finally. "You have my oath, my oath as a Reed, that I will do everything within my power to free the slaves aboard this starship and to get you back where you belong, Commander Tucker."

Then Hoshi's face broke into a delighted smile as Malcolm slowly lowered the weapon.

"Oh, Lieutenant, I could kiss you!" she exclaimed.

Malcolm and Trip both looked at her, startled.

Hoshi rolled her eyes. "It's just a figure of speech."

"Now," Malcolm said. "Have you a _specific_ plan of action, Mr. Tucker? Or were you just going to … fly by the seat of your trousers?"

"Pants," Trip said. "I fly by the seat of my _pants_."

Malcolm grinned. "As you Americans put it," he said mildly. "Now … I think _I_ have an idea." 

And, before Trip and Hoshi realized what he was about, he had handcuffed both of them.

"Lieutenant!" Hoshi gasped. "What are you doing?"

"Malcolm, you gave me your word," Trip said, utterly shocked at being betrayed when he had come so _close_ to winning.

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "Did I? And what does _that_ mean, where you come from?" His expression was unreadable. If Trip didn't know any better, he'd think there was some mischief in it.

And then, as Malcolm prodded him in the back with his phase pistol and directed him and Hoshi toward the lift with a curtly-phrased order, Trip began to smile.


	20. Turnabout

Chapter Twenty: Turnabout

            "I caught them trying to escape through the ducts, Captain," Malcolm said as he shunted Trip and Hoshi into Archer's ready-room. "Ensign Sato somehow shorted out the locking mechanism."

            Archer had been examining some documents of some sort on his computer terminal. A dark expression furrowed his brow and glittered in his eyes as he looked up from his work. "Really," he said. "Lieutenant, I had no idea your security measures were so easily bypassed."

            Malcolm stiffened. "Sir," he said. "There is nothing –"

            But Archer didn't let him continue his explanation. He was out of his chair and across the room in an instant, staring down at the much shorter officer before him with a particularly contemptuous expression rippling across his features. When he spoke, though, his voice was low and soft … which made it somehow all the more ominous than if he had been shouting. "Where were your security guards, Lieutenant? Where were you? Didn't you think your prisoner's woman would be a security risk? Why wasn't she under observation? Are you _that hopelessly inefficient, Malcolm?" _

            Malcolm stared straight ahead of him, but he didn't have the emotional control he was trying desperately to grasp. Trip could see him flinching with every accusation.

            "I am very disappointed in you, Mr. Reed," Captain Archer said, his voice frosty. 

            "Sir," Malcolm said. His voice sounded strangled. 

            "And you, Ensign," Captain Archer said gently.

            Hoshi raised her chin and stared defiantly into Archer's face. "Yes, Captain."

            "You've sacrificed everything to save the man you love from ignominy and death," Archer said, his voice like a caress. "How romantic of you …"

            She closed her eyes briefly, fighting back loathing. 

            "Unfortunately, your empty gesture has, indeed, cost you everything," Archer said. He turned to Malcolm. "Take Ms. Sato to the brig."

            "Yes, sir," Malcolm said. He glanced, questioningly, in Trip's direction.

            "No," Archer said. "I want to talk to Mr. Tucker alone."

            Malcolm looked for a moment as though he would have liked to protest. Then he turned to exit the room.

            As he passed Trip on his way to the door, he turned sharply and grabbed him, one hand at the small of his back and the other gripping him by the shoulder. His palm and fingers scraped over the handcuffs as he took hold of him, and Trip felt a sudden weight thrust between his wrists, a slight difference in pressure. Then Malcolm kneed him, swiftly, in the stomach. "That's for getting me into this situation," he growled. Then he grabbed Hoshi roughly by the arm and dragged her out of the room.

            The pain was startling and explosive; but as Trip stood there, gasping, he realized that there were compensations, like the phase pistol between his wrists and back and the little key that Malcolm had left in the locking mechanism of the cuffs. He was careful to keep the gun out of view of Archer, though.

            "You must forgive our friend Malcolm," Archer was saying in a cloying drawl. "After all, your escape has cost him a lot ..."

            "It's not his fault," Trip said.

            "Oh, really?" Archer snorted. "He's been outsmarted. I don't need a tactical officer who can be so readily out-thought."

            "He _did catch us," Trip pointed out, fumbling at the key with his thumbs, trying to get it to turn. "There's no sense in wasting resources."_

            Archer was inches away from him now, staring into his face. "I still haven't figured you out, Trip," he said quietly. "Where were you going to run to, on a ship this size?"

            "I told you I was just trying to get home," Trip said. "But you didn't believe me, did you?" He laughed, to mask the clicking sound as the key turned in the lock.

            "I'm afraid I can't be lenient with you this time, Mr. Tucker," said the captain, shaking his head as though the admission caused him great pain. "You're too slippery for the brig."

            "Clap me in irons?" Trip suggested.

            "Somehow I get the feeling that you're not taking this very seriously, Commander," Archer said, his voice suddenly very hard. "You think you're going to get out of this alive, don't you?" He laughed, coldly. "Well, let me assure you, you're right. I'm sure that Doctor Singerra will find all sorts of entertaining ways of keeping you _alive_ … but I'm equally certain that you're not going to be enjoying it."

            "On the contrary, Cap'n," Trip said, exaggerating his own Southern accent with dramatic flair as he shrugged his wrists and the handcuffs crashed to the ground. He whipped the phase pistol around and pressed it against Archer's chest, flashing his most charming grin as he backed the other man up against the wall of his readyroom. "I am taking this matter _very_ seriously indeed."


	21. Savior

A/N: I just wanted to thank you all again for your patience … and apologize to you for my irregularity. I also apologize for the clumsy action sequence and for my not identifying the two separate pairs of handcuffs a few chapters back; once I finish this monstrous thing there are a couple of things that'll get rewritten … 

Chapter Twenty-One: Savior

Captain Archer stared into his subordinate's face and slowly, very slowly, he began to smile. 

Trip's finger rested on the trigger of the phase pistol, pressed against the chest of the man who looked so very much like one of his closest friends and most respected officers. He looked into the smirk that turned up the corners of Jonathan's mouth, of the coldness in his eyes, and wondered whether he had a story as sad as Hoshi's or Travis's, hiding somewhere in there. He wondered, also, if he had it in him to put an end to it.

"Well, Trip?" said Archer, raising his eyebrows. It was an amazingly snide tone to address someone who held your life in his hands with. "You've got my attention. What are you going to do with it?"

"You think this is about attention?" Trip asked.

He would have to do it. He couldn't let Archer keep talking – who knew what he might say? 

But he didn't think he could do it. He didn't think he had it in him to pull that trigger and to watch the man that had been his role model and his friend, almost like an older brother, die. 

"This is about power, Trip," Archer said, his voice contemptuous. "But you don't have power over me."

"Don't I?" Trip said. He didn't back away, as much as he suddenly wanted to. 

"If you do, pull the trigger," Archer said. "Kill me. That's the only way you're going to get out of this one."

Trip's finger twitched on the trigger, but he didn't press down. 

"You can't do it," said Captain Archer. 

Trip felt suddenly lost. He couldn't do it. He'd never killed a man in cold blood, never in his life, and this man had done nothing to him. He was a self-righteous, obnoxious son of a bitch, the representative of a horrific system, with inverted values and a hell of a lot of sleazy, and he'd treated Trip's friends terribly in ways that he had trouble thinking about, but when you got right down to it, Trip couldn't kill an unarmed man.

            He took a step backwards.

            Captain Archer smiled a cold, terrible smile and backhanded him across the face. Caught off-balance, Trip stumbled backwards. He was open to attack and Archer took the opportunity he was given, lashing out with a hard kick. His foot caught Trip's hands and knocked the phase pistol out of his grasp. 

            It clattered to the ground. Trip and the captain dove for it at the same moment. Both of them grasped it at the same time and tried to wrestle out of the other's grasp, rolling over several times on the ground. Trip had right on his side, of course, and he was younger, faster than the older man; but this Jonathan Archer's life had not been easy and he fought dirty. He thrust his knee into Trip's groin from underneath him and threw him over backwards so that he hit the wall with a heavy _thunk, ripping the weapon from his fingers and breaking several of them in the process. _

            Trip cried out in pain and rolled over, surging to his feet and thrusting his head into Archer's face. There was a sickening crunching sound as the captain's nose was broken, and Trip wrenched the phase pistol out of his grasp again. 

            He transferred it to his left hand, his right with its broken fingers utterly useless at this point, and fired at Archer's head. The other man dodged out of the way and spun around to thrust his elbow into Trip's windpipe. Trip stumbled back, gasping for air, and raised the gun to fire again.

            Before he did so, there was another phase blast from the doorway to the ready-room and Archer crumpled to the ground.

Trip turned around, gasping for breath and trying not to whimper in pain. Travis Mayweather stood in the doorway, holding a phase pistol and smiling grimly.

"Sounded like you could use a little help," he said. 

            Trip nodded wearily and mopped at his brow with the back of his hand. "I could use a doctor, too," he said. "But not Doctor Singerra, I think."

"You're the highest-ranked Starfleet officer on this ship, Commander …" Travis said mildly. He crossed the room and squatted in front of the fallen Archer, examining him critically. "That makes you functionally the captain. Singerra pays attention to rank."

            "I'm not the captain," Trip said firmly. He bent over and picked up the handcuffs that Malcolm had used on him. "Is he dead or stunned?"

            "Stunned," Travis replied with a smile tossed over his shoulder at Trip. Then he whipped a dagger out of his boot and calmly stabbed the fallen man in the heart. "Dead," he said. He stood up, leaving the dagger embedded in his former captain's chest, and turned to look at Trip with upraised brows. "Shall we go?"

            Trip wondered if the Travis he knew on his _Enterprise – the __real _Enterprise___ – were just as capable of calmly stabbing an enemy in the chest. Probably not, since Trip himself wasn't capable of it, but he thought the image might haunt him the next time they shared a tent on a camping trip._

            "Yeah," he said, holding up the handcuffs in his left hand. "I've got some property to return."


	22. The Captaincy

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Captaincy 

Travis helped Trip out of the captain's ready-room, holding his broken-fingered hand gingerly out in front of him. The bridge crew weren't even making a pretense at going about their jobs; T'pol was nowhere to be seen, but the others on duty – Hoshi and Malcolm and a couple of ensigns Trip vaguely thought he recognized – were all staring unabashedly at the two men as they stepped out onto the bridge.

Trip Tucker felt very grim. It wasn't that he'd never seen a man die before; but he'd just watched one of his friends stab the image of another, with a terrifying coldness and efficiency, and he'd had to think of it as justice. 

"Awaiting your orders, Captain," Malcolm said, his voice very soft and his tone deferential even as his eyes flashed challenge. The question in his expression was clear: have I risked this for nothing, will you keep your word?

"I have no desire for the captaincy," Trip announced. "It's yours, Captain Reed." He saluted, smartly.

Malcolm grinned and briskly removed Hoshi's handcuffs. "Ah," he said. "Ensign Sato, most lovely and talented of communications officers … I trust you understand the necessity of the subterfuge."

Hoshi stared at him for a long moment. "Rot in hell, Captain," she said sweetly.

Malcolm raised his eyebrows at her, and then, neatly, backhanded her across the face. Trip felt his fists clench, but retaliating on Hoshi's behalf was possibly the stupidest thing he could do at this point, and he held himself in check. "Cheeky defiance," he said. "Cute, but unacceptable, Ensign."

"Yes, sir," Hoshi said.

"Station," Malcolm snapped crisply, and strolled across the bridge to his old station, a particularly self-satisfied expression on his face. "My, my … tactical looks extremely lonesome without me," he said. "Ensign Sato?"

"Yes, Captain Reed?" Hoshi said.

"Tell Lieutenant Singerra to report to the bridge immediately," Malcolm said, folding his arms across his chest.

Hoshi turned and busied herself at her station. Trip felt sorry for her; he knew that she didn't like him and that taking orders from him was going to be difficult for her, but she really would be better off with Captain Archer and whatever it was that he'd been holding her head … maybe she'd even quit Starfleet the next time they were back near the Earth system or near an Earth-bound ship, with nothing to hold her here. Maybe Travis could go back to the _Horizon_. He almost felt sad – it wouldn't be the same _Enterprise without them. But then … this was hardly the same _Enterprise_ it had been when he'd come here, seeing as how he was responsible for the assassination of Captain Archer._

The newly promoted Captain Reed strolled across the Bridge, delighting in the fact that he now owned it, and glanced at Travis. "Well, Ensign? Want to take the helm?" he asked solicitously.

"Yes, sir," said Travis, saluting and fighting a smile. "Thank you, sir."

Malcolm nodded. "What about you, Commander Tucker?" he said. "Do you need a doctor to attend to that hand of yours? I believe the Denobulan slave is a student of medicine."

"No more slaves," Trip murmured.

A peculiar expression flashed across Malcolm's face. "Right … I'd been meaning to talk to you about that," he said smoothly.

Trip took a few steps forward and stared down into the shorter man's angular face. "No more slaves, Malcolm," he said. "That was the arrangement. Are you backing out, now?"

Malcolm smiled. "No, of course not," he said silkily. "It's just that these things take time … I can't force change on the crew all of a sudden like that …"

Trip realized suddenly that Malcolm was trying to be slippery because he resented the fact that Trip had power over him. By giving him command of the ship, he had basically set himself up with the ability to take it away at any time. By _bargaining_ for command instead of taking it, Malcolm had in some way diminished his authority in his own eyes and he was trying to mitigate that by breaking the deal.

"Permission to speak with you privately, Captain," Trip said stiffly, standing to attention.

But just then, Singerra marched onto the Bridge, her face expectant.

"In a moment," Malcolm said, turning to Doctor Singerra. "Lieutenant … your new post is armoury officer."

"Yes, Captain," Singerra said, seeming thoroughly unsurprised. "And who will run Sickbay, if I may ask?"

Malcolm glanced at Trip. "Phlox," he said shortly.

Singerra looked startled, then. "Really," she said. 

"Really," Malcolm said. He seemed ready to start twitching at any moment.

"Very well," said Lieutenant Singerra. She sat down at Malcolm's old station and started going over his screens. She seemed much more at home here on the Bridge than she ever had in Sickbay. Trip made a mental note to check the roster when he got home to see if there was a Singerra working in Malcolm's department anywhere … it might explain a lot, like the apparent propensity of Sickbay in this reality to deal in torture and physical pain. "Ensign Cutler can assist him."

"Very good. Ensign Sato, please inform Ensign Cutler of her new assignment," Malcolm said, turning away from Singerra.

"Certainly, Captain Reed," Hoshi said. "And I'll have someone get rid of the corpse in your ready-room, shall I?"

"Officer thinking, Ensign," Malcolm said, almost cheerfully.

"Hmmmm." It was T'pol's voice, cold and amused. She stood by the turbolift doors, leaning insolently against the wall. "_Captain Reed … don't you think that's a little premature?'_

Malcolm froze. So did Trip. Here was resistance from an unexpected quarter. But of course; T'pol followed Captain Archer in the chain of command, before even Trip did. Somehow he hadn't thought about her, and neither apparently had Malcolm; probably because they were involved, or because she wasn't actually a member of Starfleet, or any number of other reasons.

But as she stood there, leaning against the door with cold steel in her eyes, it was clear that there was going to be resistance here.

"Your little plan," T'pol said, strolling forward onto the Bridge, "was an interesting exercise in logic with nevertheless a very human flaw … you seem to have forgotten the chain of command. Humans being fallible as they are, I am not exactly surprised … but I cannot fault you on the flawless execution of your scheme." She settled into the captain's chair and leaned back, putting her feet up and sprawling in it, lazily, all indolence and insolence in her slinky dark uniform and her spiked heels.

"T'pol," Malcolm said levelly. "Subcommander …"

"Oh, no," T'pol said. "Commander T'pol. I am, in fact, in command of the _Enterprise_. That makes me _Commander_. Or … what is that human word?" She rested her cheek against her palm, her elbow on the chair's armrest. "Ah yes. Captain. _Captain T'pol_. It has a certain … aesthetic quality."

"The Imperial Fleet won't stand for it," Malcolm said. "You can't permanently command this ship."

"I believe I can," T'pol purred. "In fact, I believe that it is my duty as the first officer aboard the _Enterprise, as appointed by your Fleet and my High Command, to take command of the ship should the captain be incapacitated or killed … doesn't the present situation qualify?"_

"Captain Archer is no longer the captain of this ship," Malcolm said. "I am."

"Tell me, _Lieutenant Reed_," T'pol said, "what is the traditional punishment for mutineers in your Fleet?"

Malcolm blanched visibly. "T'pol," he said. "Don't do this."

"I've already done it," said T'pol. "How do you plan on stopping me?"

Malcolm's phase pistol was out of its holster and trained on her. "Don't do this," he repeated.

"You're going to shoot me?" T'pol shook her head. She ran one hand seductively down her body, indicating perhaps what Malcolm would be destroying if he killed her. "You won't do that. You know I'll probably keep you on as my Captain's man should you behave yourself …" 

"Don't make me do this, T'pol," Malcolm repeated. His voice cracked a little, but his hand was steady as the gun pointed at her.

"Tell me, Lieutenant," T'pol said, as though it were only a matter of idle curiosity. "Did you think I would just stand by and let you take the ship? Did you think I would be content to be captain's woman when I was entitled to be captain?"

"I hoped you would," Malcolm admitted. "But really, T'pol, it doesn't matter what you want. I'll have the captaincy, one way or another. With you, or without you. The choice is yours."

"Why did you think I would do that?" T'pol asked.

"I thought you loved me," Malcolm admitted. His voice was barely above a whisper. It was obviously a difficult admission for him to make.

The Bridge was dead silent for a long moment. And then, T'pol threw back her head and laughed.

She laughed at him, the sound cold and cruel and somehow empty, because Vulcans did not laugh and it was clearly a learned behavior, like so much of the affectations she utilized in this reality.  "Oh," she said. "Your naïveté … I find it quite charming, Lieutenant."

The phase pistol trembled in Malcolm's hand, ever-so-slightly.

"Good-bye, T'pol," he said, and fired.

He slid the phase pistol back into its holster and strode up to the command chair, looking down at the dead woman slumped in the chair. He reached out with one hand, his fingers a bare centimeter away from the smooth skin of her face. He came so close to touching her … and then he tore himself away, his face closed and expressionless.

"Get rid of the body, Lieutenant," he said softly, his voice strained, to Singerra. "Commander Tucker … you have the bridge. I'll be in my ready room."

He turned and walked slowly off the bridge.

The crew sat in silence for a long moment. They were used to a pattern of assassination and intrigue running their lives, but finding everything flushed out in the open like this was clearly more than a little disturbing.

"What are you looking at?" Trip said. "Back to work."

He'd talk to Malcolm, about getting back to the planet, about freeing the slaves as he'd promised. He'd talk to Malcolm about everything. But not right now.

He thought the new captain could use a little time alone.


	23. The New Chief Medical Officer

A/N: As seems to be par for the course, I will once again apologize for the bewilderingly long time between updates. My only excuse is a very full fannish life and the rigours of a university-level education. And now, my obligatory whineyness out of the way, we can continue to the story, which will actually be finished in just three or four chapters now! Huzzah!  
  
Chapter 23: New Chief Medical Officer  
  
"There," Doctor Phlox said, satisfied.   
  
Trip's hand was now taken care of, as well as it could be. The Denobulan physician was as good on this side as on the other, although much more hesitant here, and it seemed that he kept looking over his shoulder, expecting the proverbial other shoe to drop.  
  
"Thanks, Doc," Trip said, examining his hand. He suspected that it wouldn't really be his concern anymore, once he got back to his home universe; although in some science fiction stories the crossover was physical, there were scars all over this body that Trip was certain he'd remember getting, so his real body probably wouldn't have this broken hand when he got back.   
  
He wondered if he could hurl himself off the upper deck in engineering and break most of the bones in this body before transporting back. This other Commander Tucker probably deserved it.  
  
"Commander …" Phlox started, and then hesitated, glancing around him surreptitiously.   
  
"Yeah?" Trip said, getting down off the operating table.  
  
"I didn't think you could do it," Phlox said. His voice was just a murmur, difficult for Trip's ears to catch.  
  
Trip's expression turned rueful. "I wasn't sure I could either," he said. "But … I had to try."  
  
"Thank you," Phlox said softly.   
  
Trip thought that what Phlox was really trying to do was apologize for his previous behavior. He felt a strong urge to reach out and pat the Denobulan's arm, or hug him – to do something to let him know that it was all right and that he'd understood exactly why Phlox had had to betray him before. But Denobulan males were notoriously leery of unnecessary physical contact, and Trip didn't want to make him any more uncomfortable than he clearly already was.  
  
"You're welcome," Trip said. There wasn't much else he could say. "No problem" was inaccurate and "my pleasure" would've just been damn flippant, considering the circumstances.  
  
Then he turned and headed for the doors of Sickbay, feeling that he'd left the new captain of the Enterprise to his privacy long enough.  
  
"And … Commander?" Phlox called after him.  
  
Trip turned.  
  
"Good luck," Phlox said. "Getting back to your own universe."  
  
Trip grinned. "Thanks, Doc," he said. "I wish I could bring you with me." He immediately wished he hadn't said it; the flash of wistful longing that coloured the doctor's face was unbearable.  
  
"Not to worry," Phlox said. "There's plenty to do here. It's not every day that a former slave gets a position of high honor on the Terran Imperial Fleet's flagship."  
  
"I guess not," Trip said. He wondered what the ramifications were of that – just what exactly he'd done. Maybe it would turn out to be an isolated incident in a dismal universe, or maybe he'd sparked revolution here, a revolution that would change these people's worlds forever, for the better. He'd never know, and he rather suspected that no one would ever have the opportunity of finding out.  
  
It was a pity, really. But not enough of one to keep him here an instant longer than he had to be by force of situational inertia.  
  
"Good-bye, Commander. I suspect … that we won't be meeting again," Phlox said quietly.  
  
Trip blinked. "I'll probably be able to get down here again, before I get back home," he said. "It'll take us a little while to get back to that planet."  
  
Phlox smiled sadly. "Yes," he said. "It will, won't it?" Then he turned away.  
  
Trip left Sickbay, puzzling over that. It certainly sounded ominous, but he wasn't certain at all what it meant.   
  
Was Phlox auguring his own death? Or Trip's? 


	24. Death Sentence

Chapter 24: Death Sentence

            "Ah … Trip."

            There was something strange in Captain Reed's voice as he stared out of the window in his ready room. All of Archer's personal effects had been removed, but not replaced by anything; it seemed that Malcolm did not have a lot of personal things to decorate his newfound office with. The room seemed barren and empty without the collection of action figures and small personal touches that Trip was used to; it was a little disturbing that this Captain Archer had shared so much with the one he knew as to have the same collection of action figures on his shelf, considering the circumstances. 

            "Yes, sir?" Trip said. He suspected that challenging the new captain's authority – authority that he'd been granted courtesy of Trip's balls and ingenuity rather than his own – was not exactly a good idea just at present, no matter the growing urge he had to punch the man in the face. 

            "We'll be at your … planet … within a matter of hours," Malcolm said. It was as though he found the words distasteful, and kept not looking at him. "Then, of course, you will beam down and back, and this charade will be over."

            "Charade, Captain?" Trip said. "I don't understand."

            "I don't know why you've chosen to do it this way," Malcolm said. "It's very unlike you. But if you want to send me on this fool's errand before I kill you, it's all the same to me."

            Trip caught his breath at the anger rippling in Malcolm's voice. "So you don't believe me," he said levelly.

            Malcolm turned to stare at him, darkness in his eyes. "Believe you?" he snorted. "I don't pretend to understand why you want to go back to that planet, but you have to admit that your proposition sounds ludicrous."

            "I know it sounds crazy, but I don't think that should make it a lie. Why in the world would I make something like that up?" Trip said. 

            "I think you're stalling for time," Malcolm said in a low voice. "But whatever you're doing, it's not going to work. I just thought you should know that. To be fair, since you so charitably gave me this command."

            "You're welcome," Trip murmured.

            He knew immediately that he shouldn't have said it, from the wild anger that flashed across Malcolm's face. Malcolm hit him across the face with the back of his hand.

            "That _tongue_ may have got you in good with my predecessor," Captain Reed growled, his nose inches from Trip's. "But it won't get you anywhere with me."

            "Look – Malcolm –" Trip started to say, trying to placate this man who was the spitting image of his friend.

            Malcolm hit him across the face again, this time so hard that his fingernails cut into Trip's cheek.

            "Stop talking," he said. "I don't want to hear it. You'll wait in your quarters until we get to your planet. You'll be taken under guard to the transporter. I will operate the machinery for you myself. And if you try anything funny – anything at all – it will be Ensign Sato's safety on the line, not your own. Do you understand?"

            Trip paled. He had no idea what his other self was going to do when he regained possession of his body. What was going to happen to Hoshi? "Captain –" he started to say, but stopped at the murderous look on Malcolm's face. This was not a man in control of himself. "I understand," he said.

'           Malcolm stepped back a little and dropped his hands to his sides. "Good," he said, in his clipped voice. 

            "May I speak with Hoshi before I go, since when I come back … ?" he said.

            Malcolm stared at him for a moment. "So that's it," he said, sneering and skeptical. "You're resigning to this. All dignity. No fight. No caterwauling _temper tantrum_ from Captain Archer's spoiled lapdog?"

            Trip looked into his face. "Is that really what you think of me, Malcolm?"

            Malcolm hesitated. "It used to be," he admitted, in barely louder than a whisper. "Now I don't know."

            "You don't know what to make of me," Trip said slowly, his eyes steady on Malcolm's own. "You're afraid because you don't understand."

            "I'm not afraid of anything!" Malcolm snapped, stiffening again, the momentary relaxation completely gone from his strained features.

            "You're afraid of me," Trip said. "That's why you're going to kill me. You don't understand how I could have the captaincy in my hands and just _give_ it to you. You're going to kill me so you don't have to wonder about it anymore. Wonder if I meant it. Wonder if I really am just being generous or if I've got some kind of ulterior motive, something you're not smart enough to suss. Well, I haven't. There's no way this is going to get me anything, except back home, to my own universe." He started forward and Malcolm backed away, apparently startled by his intensity. "Back to my own universe, right? Where things aren't crazy! Where Jonathan's not a sadistic bastard, where Malcolm knows what honor means, where Phlox has always been free, where Hoshi and Travis aren't battered and abused and miserable! Where the _Enterprise_is on a mission of peaceful exploration, not conquest! Where freedom and justice are more important than … than …!" He trailed off, gesturing wildly, trying to figure out a word to describe the perverted values that he'd been confronted with here, but words failed him and he gave up. "Dammit, Malcolm, I am _tired_, tired of this ship, tired of this crew, tired of this reality, I want to go _home_, that's all I want, and if you want to kill the me that gets off that transporter pad you are more than welcome because the man is a pathetic, abusive low-life who deserves _exactly what you give him_." He turned away from Malcolm's bewildered stare and tangled his fingers in his hair, feeling frustrated and angry, as though he were locked in a cage. "You don't have to believe me. I don't give a damn what you believe. I just want to go _home_. Okay? Home!"

            He slammed his fist into the wall by the door and breathed deeply, trying to calm himself down.

            "Where Malcolm knows what honor means," Malcolm repeated, in a quiet, broken voice. He started to speak, then, first softly and then louder and louder and closer to hysterics, his voice cracking and his eyes wild and wet with tears that he would not – could not – shed. "Did his father beat him, too, Trip? Was his sister killed by a Vulcan patrol, before the Emperor took the throne? Did he have to kick and bite and claw his way up through the ranks, did he join the Imperial service because he couldn't make it on the seas? Did he learn how never, ever, _ever_ to be completely asleep? Did he see what happened to the ones that weren't hard, the ones that hadn't learned how not to care? The ones who never raped a girl, the ones who never tried to kill an instructor, never murdered a sergeant, never killed and maimed and raped and blackmailed and seduced their way into getting a good commission? It's take or be taken, kill or be killed, there's nothing else to be done. You do it or you don't do it and if you don't do it it's done to you and by God I was never going to let _anyone_ do it to me again. I learned that when I was nine years old, Trip, _nine years old_, when my father held me under the water and screamed that I'd damn well learn to swim or he'd drown me like the spineless rat I was. You've saved me from the ocean's grasp – or your other self did, Mr. Tucker – and you know how afraid I am of water. You know I killed my father to keep him from drowning me. Did your _friend_ have to learn that way? Did those things ever happen to him? Has he ever taken a weapon and fired it into the heart of the woman he loves more than anything in the world because he knew if he didn't kill her she'd kill him and prove his father right, prove that he _is_ a spineless rat that should have been drowned before he was ten years old? Do you think if _your _Malcolm had had to do all of the things that I've had to do, if he'd lived through what I've lived through, if he knew what I know, that he would still know what _honor_ means?"

            "Then you believe me. That there is another universe, where things are …" 

            "Yes, Trip. I have to believe you," Malcolm said, "because I can't see how things could be much worse." He smiled, coldly, and it was the most terrifying expression Trip had ever seen on a human face. "And I hate it. And I hate you. Go to your quarters. The guards will make certain no one kills you. I may not know what honor means, Mr. Tucker, but I made you a promise, and you've been true to your word thus far, so I will be true to mine." He leaned forward, his eyes hard as stone. "_All_ of my word, Commander. No funny business. No uplifting the masses against my newfound tyranny. No bloody slave revolts. Change can't come here just because you _want_ it to. Just because you snap your fingers and tell us to heal ourselves . . . Your way may be the better way, but it won't work here, because your way can't work unless it's _everyone's_ way. Understand?"

            "Yes, Captain. I understand," Trip said.  
  



End file.
